Thank You and Good Night

by Ray Succre

  In the Jewish tradition, the funeral was at first planned for Sol’s home, but the missing wife and the fact that the home had been the location of his suicide caused his uncle and two aunts to schedule the service at a funeral chapel. Sol’s Uncle had performed most of the shemira at the home, watching over the body until the funeral, as was customary, and had recited the various psalms in the process. At the end of the week, the body had been moved to the chapel. That Sol’s family was so small had caused problems with the tradition of funeral, but relief had been given in the form of several visitors.

  Emery wondered how awful the woman would feel when she found out, if she found out. Emery clutched Beth’s hand tightly during the service, thankful that the world saw fit to honor him in a companionship that wore such warmth and understanding, such love and care. What had Sol done to cause Mrs. Jamison to flee? Had she simply been a terrible sort of person, and Sol had been unfortunate, deserving better? Had he been an awful husband? Either of these plausibilities felt shattering to Emery, and they were difficult to keep from his mind during the funeral. He had made much effort in clearing his mind, several times during the service, and had begun to like Sol Jamison as much as he disliked him. This caused in Emery a bevy of odd and unmanageable reflections.

  Jamison had only joined into television in the early fifties, much as Emery had, but the older man’s temerity as a radio producer paved the way to it, unlike Emery, who’s rise into the business had been as if on the back of an errant racehorse. Sol had worked hard, and luck had played so little part of his career. It was with time, a lot of activity and effort, that the deceased had established himself in his occupation. Sol had no friends, it seemed. The people present were producers and writers, various people from the few productions he had presided over, but these people did not seem to hold much sadness over the loss. They were more curious and stunned than else.

  Bernie Dozier had not come, but this had been explained days earlier: He felt in part responsible. Bernie had called Sol on the telephone and informed the producer of the cancellation, before telling others. He did not want a repeat of the argument that followed the show’s first cancellation, and chose to inform Sol without Emery being present. Dozier hadn’t wanted the two producers ganging up on him in anger, if this could be avoided. So, Jamison had been informed a day before Emery, the morning of the Emmy awards. Emery and Larry had been called into Sol’s office shortly after. The things Sol Jamison had said to them were cold, callous, and in view of the day’s events, somewhat of a warning. Sol had chosen to give Emery some tough love disguised as an angry rant, before killing himself. An hour after his meeting with the two writers, Sol went home early to his empty house, had half of a drink, and then hung himself with an ironing cord in his garage.

  Worse than the hanging were the scratch marks reported to be present along his jaw, around the long mire of the cord’s strangulation path. Sol had changed his mind, it seemed. He had kicked back his step-ladder, dropped, concluded that he wanted to live, and had tried to dig his fingers into the cording, to pull himself up. He had chosen to remain. Gravity and weight would not be assuaged however, and now a group of onlookers, not so much friends, sat and listened to the sporadic, line-graph plots of his life being uttered through a cheap microphone, events that seemed of worth and the sorts of hallmarks that supposedly made a man what he was, or had been. These were events that were to be forgotten over the years, along with the man who had accomplished them. Sol had been but 46 years old, not even ten years Emery’s senior, yet the man had felt to be at least twenty years more aged.

  The notion of suicide was a circling dog in the minds of those who attended the funeral. At times treated as a great offense that denied one the process of traditional funeral, and at times considered a sad and terrible end worthy of forgiving, the stigma of suicide changed much in the meaning behind a person’s eternal absence, especially in the Jewish faith. In this case, the small, surviving family of Sol Jamison had been quite adamant that he be given the traditional rites and interned as any other practicing Jew would be, despite that suicide was considered by many to be an unforgivable offense.

  “The taking of one’s own life is a grave sin, but this sin is an offense between man and God,” the rabbi stated, “and for this tragedy we will inter Solomon Joseph Jamison into the Earth, that his soul be discerned by God and judged, and his body be joined back into the Earth. ‘Despite yourself you were fashioned, and despite yourself you were born, and despite yourself you live, and despite yourself you die, and despite yourself you will hereafter have account and reckoning before the King of Kings, the Holy One, blessed be He.’ We will let this matter be handled by the two for which it concerns. As this is not an offense between man and man, so it will not be our place today to cast our judgment, but to render Solomon Joseph Jamison to the hereafter in the orthodox way, and send him to his greater meaning.”

  This was all that the rabbi mentioned of the manner by which Sol had perished. Emery had thought there would be more trouble, but those present had conceded to be kind. In the course of the remaining eulogy, several psalms were recited, and these were followed by the canter and Memorial Prayer, which painted the air in somber voice and the recitations of Sol’s religious heritage. Emery knew the heritage well, but had left it many years ago.

  Having attended previous funerals, Emery knew the body was to be lowered into the ground. He had watched with a sense of panic as his mother disappeared beneath the floor that all people had once walked, still did, or would walk in time. It was as if those present were putting the person away. In a box stuck under the house like old clothes or things one wanted to keep in some way, but had no time for, things that, in time, would be forgotten and finally discarded. This was a ridiculous thought, of course, but sadness brought out the unavoidable, tragic ridiculousness of so many things. Emery and Beth were not allowed to view the burial, having taken their part as non-family in the eulogy service. The burial was for family, but again, the small nature of this caused trouble. Volunteers from Sol’s synagogue had been asked to carry the casket, and they did so, out of sight. Emery sighed.

  “Baruch dayan emet,” he muttered, speaking from old memory, an image of his father in his mind, “Well, let’s hope, right?”

  The clothes had been torn, the prayer given, the eulogy completed. Emery left the chapel with Beth in his arm, pondering the bizarre servitude a person underwent throughout a life. It was strange and spotty the way a man’s deeds were rummaged through after he died. It was almost a cold bastardization, but somehow good, cared for, and for many, holy in nature. These thoughts confused him and caused him to clench his jaw tightly. He did not have a knack for funerals. They mortified and harangued him. He had trouble settling things into their proper order, understanding the notion of grief, which to him was a thing to cudgel and tread quickly, like a cut finger or damaged knee. Something to survive. To get past. This was at odds his sentimentality, however. The effect of a person’s life being lost only exposed the hidden nerve most kept at bay, a trigger that squelched loudly and shuddered a person from balance. Funerals frightened Emery more than most things, and especially those funerals for men who were but middle-aged.

  In front of the chapel, he lit a cigarette with a shaky motion. Beth took note of his nerves and said little, and though it was incredibly rare for her, she had a cigarette, as well. The two made their way toward the car, lost in their own thoughts and breathing the cool, summer air, nicotine settling their stomachs and nerves. The street near the chapel was busy, vehicles disappearing as sudden as they arrived, passing the funeral, the cemetery, the place where everyone would end up. It was horrific and frightening, and caused Emery to want to run, to shout from his lips the madness all were living and dying within, the stark and terrible blade they were all against, even in those moments most joyful. His fear of dying had become, over the years, a panicky obsession he did not want to indulge, but could not escape.

  “Mr. Asher! Eme
ry Asher. Hello there,” a man said near their car. He was standing on the sidewalk and had been looking over the cemetery, smoking. Emery glanced him over and slowed.

  “Hi. Jack Molson; I was a friend of Solomon’s. Had some car trouble and got here late, and I didn’t want to go in and disrupt the service.”

  “Oh, I see,” Emery said.

  “Listen, I recognized you and I just want to say that I’ve known Sol a long time, and he was a good man, always had a knack for working with the best, and you’re certainly one of those. He had great things to say about you.”

  Emery blinked and stopped walking. Beth rubbed his arm a moment as he lifted his cigarette and had a drag.

  “Uh, thank you. How did you know Sol?” Emery asked.

  “We did Pig Pretty together; few other things, too, but those never got to see the light of day,” the man responded.

  “Right, okay,” Emery said, the name of the show sounding only vaguely familiar.

  “But before that, we both went to Berkeley, had some classes together. That’s where we first met. I’ve known him a long time.”

  “So, you’re in the business.”

  “Yeah, sure. Isn’t everybody? Hey listen, I think Solomon was on to something with your show, and I heard about the cancellation… I just want to say I’m sorry to hear it. I do think I know some people that could get that show back on the air for another season, if you’d be interested. Fairway Productions.”

  “You-”

  “And, hear me out, I think it would be great to take part in that. There’s- there’s real magic there. My schedule’s clear enough, is the thing, just for now, and I could step in as the new executive producer, keep Solomon’s legacy going, you know? Like family.”

  “I- I don’t know what to-”

  “Hey, I know this is the wrong time to talk about that sort of thing. I completely understand. I just saw you there and figured I might not get another chance. And he liked you so much, you know? Think it over, is all I’m sayin’. I’ll give you my business card and when you’re feeling up to it, you can just give me a call. A show this great deserves—”

  Emery’s fist cracked against the chin and knocked the head upward, tossing the man’s hat into the air. This hat tumbled over itself, seeming to ride the exact tremor contained in Beth’s shout of surprise. The man’s hands lifted as he fell backward, stumbling onto his ass on the sidewalk. In a grunt, he sat up quickly. He placed a hand against his face and rubbed, eyes wide and complexion flooding into lush red.

  “Oh, you cocksucker,” the man said. He began rising to his feet. Beth uttered something Emery did not hear. He registered the tone, which had as its base the sound of a plead. Emery stepped forward and used his foot to shove the man off-balance, back onto the ground. Beth grasped Emery’s arm. The man was smiling.

  “Honey, let’s go. Just leave him.” The downed man moved to the side, trying to get away from Emery’s foot.

  “A friend of mine is dead, you goddamn louse,” Emery said, looking at the predatory man who, after this statement, stopped trying to get up. He sat there rubbing his chin and watching Emery with a focused sort of vitriol. When the funeral-shark gave no auditory response, Emery shook his head and flicked his cigarette onto the sidewalk next to the man, continuing toward the car with Beth.

  “I just wanted to help, jackass,” the man called over his shoulder, rising to his feet and dusting himself off, “And your pal Jamison ain’t the only one gettin’ buried in this cemetery, kid. Look around. Your show’s got a headstone, too. And if I ever run into you again, so will you.”

  In a few moments, they were away from the cemetery grounds and traveling toward home. The shifter ground into third and caused the car to stutter. Beth reached her hand over and placed it on her husband’s. The lay of the avenue was straight but congested, and he was driving in a mode both erratic and unnecessary.

  “What a fucking snake. What was his name? You catch it?” Emery inquired.

  “Yes, but would you please slow down?”

  “Fine. I’m slowing down. There. Happy?”

  “No, Emery.”

  “Well, I’m sorry. Damn it… I don’t understand how a-” he paused for a moment to gather his thoughts and light another cigarette, one hand on the wheel and his eyes quickly glancing back and forth between his lighter’s flame and the avenue, “Who does that? What kind of sorry parasite would do that?” He dragged several times to get the cigarette’s cherry burning hot, then exhaled while jerking the window’s handle, rolling it down quickly.

  “He said his name was Jack something. It started with an M,” she replied, nervous at the nature of her husband’s driving, and especially his right foot, which kept angrily pressuring the pedal as if in enunciation of his words. Emery had a long pull on his cigarette and they began to creep in speed again.

  “Yeah, that’s it. Marston. Marshall. Mantle. Something like that…”

  “Honey, please. Please slow down.”

  “I’m sorry. Okay. I’m calm. Damn it, I should have taken his card. Get Calvin and Buck and go find whatever trashcan that scavenger uses as an office, have a nice, little chat with him.”

  “Picking up work at a funeral. It’s awful,” Beth said.

  “I want to find out who that son of a bitch was.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  With the long summer, one of constant revision and struggle to get The Other Side a third season, Emery’s work ethic began to fall apart. His nerve for the business no longer connected in the cohesive, energetic way it once did. He knew how it all came together, how the system worked. If he kept calling around, kept putting heat on Dozier, pushed the idea in print and through what fans he could address, the show had a very slim chance of coming back. This was an uphill battle, with a slope that never fared well, but Emery adopted a regimen of incessant telephone calls and letters, roughly five each to the day. That this was aberrant behavior to most of the people he knew in the industry, and a somewhat abnormal thing to do after a cancellation, did not occur to him. To Emery, this form of constant contact displayed eagerness, not arrogance; it was waged with temerity and not obsession, though the two were nearly indistinguishable in him.

  The writer had concluded that ceaseless badgering was simply the manner in which business was done in Hollywood. Sol had been correct: He was alone and he had to make his luck happen. No one was going to help him unless that person profited from it. Dozier still wanted in, and though the network producer was tired of late, he was taking part in trying to get the show back on the air. Emery sent letters while on vacation, first class from Cayuga Lake. He made telephone calls from airports during layovers to New York for small side-projects. He mentioned the availability of his scripts to producers behind his guest appearances, even to sponsors while performing for three different commercial spots he took on to keep some money coming. This sort of furtherance, his campaigning, was a routine he had created and upheld near religiously. Despite alienating him from many, his system of struggle was one that would pay off, though that pay-off was not without repercussion.

  CUT TO:

  INT. ‘HUNGER’ SOUNDSTAGE - 3:00 P.M.

  Several people working on the set, which seems to be the partially-finished interior of a restaurant. We see EMERY walk across the set, busy, his tape-recorder in his hand, though the device seems to be idle, for now. We follow him closely, in a continuous shot, as he moves about the set.

  EMERY:

  (to a young man in passing)

  Chad, did you manage to get a word with Rowe when he came in earlier?

  YOUNG MAN:

  No, he was in and out. I think he had some sort of appointment to keep.

  EMERY:

  Oh, of course he did.

  CUT TO:

  Tired business as usual. Bule Rowe, the new executive producer (and Sol Jamison’s replacement for the executive tightrope-walk that was the show’s third season), had proven to be a strong asset, but had lately been a little off-ha
nd and unavailable, which made Emery nervous. Rowe had also been delegating many of his duties to the line producer, which seemed a little lazy. Bule Rowe was capable, when he performed, but was difficult to push into action. The man saw himself more as a solver of big problems, rather than half of a show-runner team. Rowe did nothing preemptively, and was not fond of returning calls or being in his office. When Bule Rowe did speak, his subject always fell to figures or infringements on his time.

  Emery walked across the set and made his way outside, continuing to his small revision chamber in the busier building across the alley from the soundstage. Hunger was near complete and Charlie Houghton, a veteran director (though a first-timer on The Other Side), was pleased with the shoot thus far. The actors were in prime condition, as were the crew members, somewhat due to the nature of the episode, which gave them sporadic days of fast work, followed by simpler days of the important, longer scenes that peppered the episode. This was an easier episode to make, and very little had gone wrong or needed changing thus far. Hunger was one of Emery’s stories and, in a rare change he hoped to make more common, one in which Larry Belmont had been given the revisions. Emery was exhaustion.

  For the four months the show had been off the air, after the second cancellation, Emery had written much and his campaign to get the show back on the air had taken an exorbitant amount of his energy and drive. He had not stopped working. If anything, he had worked harder (though with no assurance) during the cancellation months than he did when the show was up and running. His nerves were weak and his energy sporadic. Confusion found him easily. As in the war, he found he needed to keep track of his thoughts, to maintain a system of focus or he would inevitably begin to drift in his fatigue.