Thank You and Good Night

by Ray Succre

  “Commercials, then the third act: We’re several hours later, and our protagonist sits at home, lightly sedated, and her poor husband is still trying to keep her calm. She seems almost mad, now. She keeps crying and muttering that her sister isn’t dead. Her sister is talking to her, trying to tell her something (and we do hear the voice, and it sounds urgent, but hushed). The husband makes a phone call, gets the family together, and he’s just begging them for help. He doesn’t know what to do. His wife is surely losing her mind. To mollify the situation, the family finally agrees to unearth the coffin and let the sister look inside. They don’t like it, but they agree. So, we cut to the funeral plot, and the family is standing around, disturbed by the whole thing but feeling it’s the right thing to do for the bereaved sister. The coffin is opened and they see the dead sister. Identical to our protagonist, but of course a different outfit. Funereal. But when the lid is open, our protagonist hears the message, and so do we, and it’s completely clear now, we can finally understand the words we’ve been hearing from the start: Let me go… let me go... It sounds emphatic and pained. And letting her go is the opposite of what our protagonist has been doing throughout the episode, and for that matter, us. The woman cries, but seems almost pleased. She is now able to let her sister go, having heard the ghostly message.

  “Then the commercials, wrap-up monologue, credits. Done. A voice from the Other Side. I might change the message a little, but that’s the gist of it. It’s a dark story, for a little while there, but I thought I’d try on your shoes a bit, Larry. Just see what sort of story I get out of it. It still needs something, a b-story that culminates with the coffin opening somehow. Maybe something more about the sister who died, and the special sort of relationship the twins have had. I’ll get to that in a second draft, though.”

  There were comparisons to family and closeness, to the manner siblings often shared a world their parents seldom grasped in the same way. A stronger element of the story came to Emery directly from the war, where a young man in his squad would wake certain nights, swearing that he had heard the voice of a friend interrupting his dream, a friend who had been shot through the head months before. The new episode was about mistake, regret, and taking the mere presence of others for granted. It mulled over the inevitability of a human’s end, but the hope for meaning. It exposed the sense of abandonment, and the hope for a reprieve from the troubling rules of life, things in a straight line with his network situation. The tale cloaked the dead and their inability to give goodbyes. It gave light to the common individual who still needed those who had passed on, the individual who realized a new clarity of love and respect for these passers, but too late, without them, conscious of their own mortality and having to live on in some ways alone. Death had to be accepted for what it was, but doing so, truly accepting, was a fashion of thought for which not everyone was suited.

  If only his mother could have seen it.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Ray Lemar stood at the dealer table and waited, talking a bit with James Vance about the set and day’s happenings. They waited with patience while Emery read quietly from a small card in his hand, a writer memorizing a paragraph of introduction he, himself, had only written the previous night. The show’s introduction monologues were usually shot near the end of production, or else were written on set in the days before the opening shoot (some locations and allocated equipment required opening scenes to be shot first). The last thing written for an episode was the exit monologue, if the schedule allowed. This was Emery’s preferred treatment, but there were times when his regiment became reversed due to weather and shooting schedule, or location. The actors were patient however, and Emery read over his introduction monologue a few more times while they waited. Lemar was staying in character, even.

  With Bob Keith, Emery’s preferred director, busy directing episodes of Police Precinct, new blood would need to be drawn. Sol Jamison agreed to executive produce again, and with him came the suggestion of Buck Mifflin to direct various episodes. After seeing some of his work, Emery agreed, and the calls had been made, the contracts drafted. Buck Mifflin, the director of the episode at hand, had worked on one Other Side episode in the first season, though he had mostly overseen some alternate scenes after the primary filming had been shot by another director, Grant Metzger. It had been a temporary job, really.

  Buck was pleased to be hired, of course, and had a keen eye. He had worked much in television, but of his credentials, the more useful and telling was that he had directed several episodes of Tales of Tomorrow, which had run for a few years at the start of the decade. He was quite impersonal on set, and though his mood was generally serious, he explained himself clearly, when needed, and was not a difficult person with which to work. The moment his leash gained some slack, Buck’s seriousness vanished and he became quite personable and fun. He was an interesting man, and had come with the foreknowledge that Bob Keith had been a big part of what made the shows good, and in seeking to establish himself on the program, Buck Mifflin had studied a bit from the Bob Keith style of things over the course of season one. Buck was adept at unearthing the various moods, it seemed. He might work out nicely, it seemed, and he was certainly efficient.

  Emery continued jabbering his monologue to himself and, after a minute or two, Buck inquired as to whether Emery was ready or not for the rehearsal. The question was little more than a vehicle for the actual statement: Ready or not, rehearsal was beginning.

  “Yes, I’m all set,” Emery said, eyes still scanning his introduction on the card.

  “Liar,” Ray Lemar said. Emery smiled at this.

  Having the girls visit the set at first seemed troublesome. Emery had tried to arrange it on a day with little shooting, his fear being that a scene might be interrupted by a cry from Vivian or question from Rebecca, which would put stress on Emery in front of the crew. He was also fighting his slight discomfort at looking hen-pecked. He was not that, but it would seem as such some of his crew. It was 1960 however, and with a new decade came new situations. This would be one of them, and he was willing to accept it.

  Emery was not the man most others blamed when a problem occurred, but he was certainly one of the men people turned to when something was amiss. He did not create troubles for the production; he solved them. When Beth suggested (this was more an explanation of events that would occur, rather than ideas for what might) that she and the girls would begin visiting Emery at work, he had tried in vain to dissuade them. It would not work out. The schedule was hectic enough without worrying about arriving family and their schedule, as well. After Beth’s resolve proved itself shielded in the iron of her will, however, Emery conceded and attempted to arrange a simple visit that would not interfere. This had been a good negotiation on his part until the day of the visit, when it was discovered they would be shooting heavily due to a change in the itinerary of James Vance, who would not be available on Thursday due to a scheduled root canal.

  Beth sat at the back of the set, behind the gaffer’s riggings and the lined props for subsequent scenes to follow in the day’s new filming regimen. She had a clear line of sight to the stage and, to Emery's relief, was not much of a distraction on the set. Rebecca and Vivian were behaving, and other than most everyone in the production saying hello and introducing themselves, the day was progressing without incident. The crew's reaction to his wife was cordial, but strangely intrigued. Emery surmised that the crew of the show might have previously seen him as somewhat of an enigma. The crew seemed so fascinated that he had children, so bizarrely intrigued with his wife. They looked at him, after the arrival of his family, with a sense of interest that was a touch warmer. Perhaps the all-business nature of his behavior while at work had conjured the notion of a cold persona. Beth and the girls were somewhat normal people, nothing outlandish in their appearance or presence, but the crew seemed to keep constant track of them, not to make sure the girls were out of the way, but because the crew members were interested and curious. Th
is surprised Emery. They didn’t judge him hen-pecked, but instead had found him more likeable. Had they previously thought him the sort who had no personal life?

  Buck quieted the set and crouched down, rubbing at the fresh shave he had rushed through that morning, which was red and irritated, likely from rapid-shave powder. Clifford Bunn, a newer cameraman standing near Buck, zeroed in on his mark and waited. The light of the set dimmed and a greater light was activated over the scene, giving Emery his minor spotlight for introduction. He stood quite still and waited, his eyes adjusting to the light.

  “Okay, Em,” Buck said.

  “We’re ready?” Emery asked after clearing his throat.

  “Yeah, we’re go if you are.” The set was silent.

  “Let’s start, then,” Emery said.

  “All right. Marks. In 3…2…” and he pointed at the cameraman.

  The camera was not on him at the start of the shot. It would instead pan to him, giving a view of the casino behind. They had some real casino shots for exteriors, and a few interiors, but shots involving the blackjack table conversations were to be filmed on the constructed set. Emery covered his mouth and quietly cleared his throat again, quickly before the camera began to move, and, being out of the frame for a moment, gave Beth a quick wave. She smiled and returned the gesture with a genuine look of ‘good luck’. Buck and Clifford spoke quietly back and forth, though most of this was Buck. Emery waited, holding still and watching the camera with his peripheral vision. This large, mounted device, not yet recording as they were but rehearsing, made a slow pan over the interior set of a casino floor. This particular shot should have been done in a real casino, but Jamison had been correct when noting that clearing a casino floor out for a shoot, even a short one, was an expense they could not wage, especially now that the bigger casinos were open all day, all night. The Vegas shots were done anyway, and there was no going back without substantially altering the budget. Jamison was that budget’s dragon guardian.

  When the pan was near complete, Buck signaled Emery, who stepped into frame to address the make-believe audience and introduce the episode. This particular story belonged to Larry Belmont, but Emery had written the introductory monologue, as he did with every episode. With the camera having reached its destination, he stepped into frame and began.

  “Every soul has a blind spot. An empty place. Most people fill this void with hobbies and preferences, a love of automobiles, or the trait of a collector with various interests or habits,” Emery said, keeping his shoulders steady and his head slightly cocked. He began moving across the active field, the camera following him to his second mark. He was to stand behind the blackjack table, as if a dealer.

  “This hollow,” Emery continued as he walked, “which is distinct and different in every person, gives us room in life to seek out and fulfill our vast interests. But there are those rare few who prefer to fill this bower with the abject presence of vice. One such man is Harold Butler, and one such vice is an addiction to-”

  “Hold on. Sorry, Em. Wait,” Buck interrupted, standing. Emery ceased and licked his lips a moment. He began bobbling on his heels, keeping his energy fixed while on standby. A quiet lull of activity began again and people began walking around the set quickly, trying to catch up between shots, especially if these shots were not real, but pantomimes done in stage rehearsal. Time for preparation was ending. They’d be filming within an hour, and likely much sooner.

  “Cliff, is his hand staying in frame, with that gesture?” Buck asked.

  “Really close to frame, but yeah,” the cameraman responded.

  “Okay, Emery, you did a movement with your hand and—”

  “This one,” Emery said, repeating his hand’s motion toward the craps tables.

  “—it puts your hand to frame. Uh, keep it closer to your chest or else just don’t do the motion. However you want.”

  “I’ll drop it.”

  “You could do it with your other hand, though,” Cliff added. Buck cocked the cameraman a somewhat blank look. Cliff stopped trying to help.

  “Okay,” Buck said then, “Marks.”

  Emery stepped back into place and the two actors at the blackjack table settled, readying themselves for the cue. The director glanced around the set a moment, thinking. Emery had a glance at Beth. Her eyebrows raised were raised and she seemed curious and intrigued with how his monologues unfolded. He was a little embarrassed to be performing in front of her. She had seen many of his monologues on the air, through the protective distance of a television screen, and he practiced while at home, but this was the first time she had been on set, and viewing him in a professional light while he performed the physical brunt of it. She had seen the beginning and end result of the monologues, but never the work between. This felt as if he was showing her some secret spot in the back yard where he hid the extra money.

  “All right, once again. 3…2…” Buck followed with his point to Cliff. The camera panned slowly and then Emery was given his cue. He stepped into frame.

  “Every soul has a blind spot. An empty place. Most people fill this void with hobbies and preferences, a love of automobiles, or the trait of a collector with various interests or habits,” He began his walk to the blackjack table, then.

  “This hollow, which is distinct and different in every person, gives us room in life to seek out and fulfill our vast interests. But there are those rare few who prefer to fill this bower with the abject presence of vice. One such man is Harold Butler, and one such vice is an addiction to gambling. Tonight, however, Mr. Butler is going to discover an element of his addiction previous and morely unknown- oh, damn it.”

  He had lost track of his line and conjured a silly word. This was incredibly common.

  “Morely?” he repeated, “Okay, morely unknown.”

  “Sounds kind of like middle english,” Vance said from his mark at the blackjack table. There was good cheer on the set, as not much had gone wrong with the day and they were working on time, though quickly. Activity picked briefly. A technician approached the blackjack table with a gauge, aimed it at his lighting rig and watched for the indication that his amount of light had run afoul. He seemed pleased, however.

  “Good first name for a henchman. ‘Morely’,” Lemar added over his shoulder.

  “Hey, that’s not bad,” Vance said to Emery, “Make sure you take that back to the producers at Pacific. Give Lemar credit, though.”

  “All right,” Emery interjected, “You see fellas, my family is here and they’re stunning me and I lost track of what I was saying.”

  “Yeah, we noticed. Not you; I mean the family. Specifically, the wife,” Lemar said.

  “All right now,” Emery replied in humor.

  “We noticed plenty,” Vance added. There was a surprise laugh from the microphone handler at this, which then dipped through the crew. Making a television show was not fun, until it was, even briefly. Beth pursed her lips in mock irritation.

  “You see all this, honey? We’re real professionals, here,” Emery called out.

  “This is a good day for us,” Buck added.

  “So this is what my husband does when he’s off at work. Messes up his lines,” she said. The crew enjoyed this. Seeing Emery grilled by his wife was good fun. There were only a few people in the production that could get away with teasing Emery. Most of the directors could, and especially Buck Mifflin, as it was simply his character. Belmont and Moffat jabbed at times. The hairdresser, Nina, had a way of saying silly things about a person and getting away with it. There were smaller jibes from the others, if the mood was right, and the sets could wear a sense of playful diversion, at times. Quite a few others had attempted teasing Emery more personally, however. Those other people now knew better. Sol Jamison was one such person. Emery and Sol left one another alone as much as possible.

  “Actually, I usually screw this up a lot more. I think I’m trying to show off,” Emery replied. This was somewhat true.

  The crew readied
and Buck popped a pill, drank it down with a swallow of seltzer. He rubbed his eyes then and said something to his 1st A.D., Louis Reynold, who nodded and walked off in search of whatever Buck had given him to seek out. After a moment, the crew feeling a bit warmed by the foray of a few laughs, Buck called the scene forward. Emery checked his tie and waited.

  Beth watched her husband standing there, at the edge of the false casino, his face still and eyes in thought. Just two months ago, he had been a slump of a man in his study and, often, the kitchen (where he preferred to work, despite having a sound study). He had spent months rifling through pages of type, distraught and overwhelmed in the stress of his mother’s passing and the cancellation of the show for which he was now, again, in charge. Life was an odd beast, and the way it snorted and could be unpredictable and cross. Emery seemed pleased, and for this, Beth was able to rummage a touch of pride. There was an unspoken thing in her mind that was dissipating, something she could never have acknowledged aloud, and this terrible thing was that, during his unemployment, she had allowed herself to begin doubting him. She had since forgiven herself for this, but wondered if he would be so quick to forgive if he had known her thoughts over the Summer, if he had known the extent to which she had believed him fallen, and that she had presumed him finished with television, and perhaps writing.

  Seeing him with his show again, writing and working, and smiling with a smidge of play, here and there, was a good way to see him. Life had rampaged a bit, but the tantrum was over and things were beginning again.