by Ray Succre
Emery made his complaints known to Bernie, and these complaints did make their way through Television City, but neither of them had any leeway in the situation. They could harass and plead, but not all the way up to the new head of the entire network. No loudspeaker short of public denigration would carry a small voice that high. A shorter season would be made, and it would have to suffice. Ugly videotape was being used. Yes, everything was riding on the season, and the season had been hindered before it even began.
Changes were being made with various elements of the show on Emery’s behalf, as well. Not all was bad, and in fact, several nice things had occurred. The relocation was proving quite functional and alleviating, and the decision to have Emery spend more time on-camera during his introductions gave him more room to hint and summarize. There was a new and somewhat offbeat score for the titles and credits, and the titles had been replaced with a new set of images in a shorter introduction. All of these things might sway a few more viewers to tune in, and Emery liked the feel of it all.
Certain things needed to be improved upon, and Emery’s quest to be approved an hour-long format was unending. This could not be, as they were on loose ground as it was, but he continued trying to get a single episode, the season finale, to be given an hour of air time. Just once, to prove it would be well received by all. This question of time was one the networks were quite tired of hearing. Emery had been quite vocal in his want of an hour, across two full seasons, and few listened to his logic anymore. With Bernie Dozier now pushing as well, perhaps an hour might happen. Bernie had become a relay and strong mouthpiece for the show, rather than a conductor behind the scenes; more a Gepetto and less a Stromboli.
Emery did not trust his own judgement with writing as much as he once had. He did trust Belmont’s, and to a certain degree, Moffat’s resolute and artistic vision. Emery held creative control of the show, and he had written quite a few good ones for the third season, but Larry, Calvin, and Joe Collery, were producing great material, and for the first time, Emery wasn’t certain he could stay ahead of them. He was by no means an old dog, but he had reached an age in which learning new tricks would require more sweat than he was accustomed to giving, and he did not learn these tricks so fast as his other, hand-picked pups.
Emery had begun to wonder if perhaps he still knew what was best for the show. Both Moffat and Belmont were given scripts to go over, and Emery had begun letting a more democratic approach take over the acceptance and rejection of scripts, rather than follow his own judgement. The instigator of Emery’s doubt was that numerous of his scripts had been rejected this season. Holding true to this idea of giving his writers a bit more say, he found four of his own scripts rejected at the outset. This was a new dilemma for him. Granted, even Emery would have admitted that two of those stories were not useable; he had been tired and needed to submit work, but had been given very little time to create the work. The other two rejections stunned him; he felt they were some of his best Other Side stories thus far. In Moffat’s words, the stories were “Great. And other-worldly… they would have been perfect for season one”.
Emery did not mind the rejections so much, surprising as some of them were, because he knew Moffat had written nearly a dozen scripts for consideration in the third season, and Belmont, always reliable, had put together fourteen scripts. Many of these were excellent. With Emery’s twenty-three scripts (though that number perpetually grew), and with the scripts of his writers being in high number early in the season, there was a big enough pool from which to pick. There was pressure, however, in that Emery needed to write and go forth with the majority of the season, as had been done in the past. This pressure came not from without, as the network only contracted him for forty percent of the scripts to air, but rather, the pressure built within: Emery was obsessed with providing. He had a reputation to shadow, not the reputation the world held for him, or the reputation of hard work by which his crew had come to consider him, but his own internal reputation.
Believing he might be failing himself only blacked his heart’s eyes. The answer was to make more and to enhance his skill. To do more with whatever he could learn. Not meeting this personal sense of ability felt like death. The rejections only encouraged him to blaze hotter. If only he had more time to write. Being a producer was the lion’s share of his day.
The nights were late and the cigarettes poured their linger into him as from vats of smoke pumped through a pressure valve. Smoking and drinking and rubbing his eyes and typing, the stories seemed to be losing their luster, but he was able to regain this with harder revision. He now left more work for himself after the draft, to compete with his earlier output. This piled up, however, and left him feeling as if he were abusing his gift by not living up to it. He had four Emmys. He had to write much in order to prove he had been worth these. He had to write more scripts now than ever, and he had to do this with a skill that demonstrated he was a stronger writer than he had been in the past. Everything had escalated but the hours in a day.
There was a bit of rumor that had made its way through the production. Most rumors were silly or inane, or at best, hinted at events that were in some way wished or even true. They were cloying things and ended quickly, but on occasion, a rumor could cause serious trouble. One such rumor had surfaced, and it was one that Emery dreaded having to address He had heard from two different people now that Moffat had sent a few scripts over to the Hitchcock production, which was no longer with CBS, but now aired on NBC.
While submitting to a competing show on the same network was not wholly against any particular rule, it was discouraged. Submitting work to a competing show on a different network however, was a definite infringement. Emery understood, of course. With The Other Side being cancelled every season, zombified with each unexpected reanimation, Moffat and Belmont had begun looking around for work that might prove balanced and less uncertain. While Emery did understand their dilemma, The Other Side had been given one last chance to prove itself, and to make this work, Emery needed Moffat’s best writing, and if the writer was spreading himself, writing in several directions at once, his work for the show might begin to diminish. Emery had given up much to maintain The Other Side. Now that it was in a sick bed and plugged into a heart monitor, his writers needed to do the same. That was the job.
Was the show getting Calvin’s best scripts? It was better to do one’s job first, and, if time permitted, have the occasional project on the side. What Emery needed to do was find out more. If this was simply a case of rejected scripts being sent elsewhere, then there was not much of a problem. Calvin Moffat had an output that could support having side projects. If Moffat was writing scripts specifically for Hitchcock’s show, however, looking for a house position, then there was a problem, as Hitchcock was a competing program on an enemy network. For Moffat to approach the competition would be bad form, a bad habit, and even if due to something as innocent as having surplus scripts, this was still a behavior frowned upon and something that should not continue.
Emery had asked Moffat to meet him for a drink after the shoot that day, in order to better ascertain the truth of the rumor. The simplest way, he had discovered, of asking someone’s exclusivity, was to ask for it out in the open, one on one, on honest ground. The trouble, of course, was greater than Moffat potentially leaving for another show. The trouble was that Emery suspected much of the crew was doing the same. Moffat was more of a figurehead of this particular dilemma. With only a third season promised, and with the network’s stated resolve to cancel half-way through the season if they deemed it best, most of the crew had their eyes open for other gigs.
It was unstoppable, really, but so long as the writers stayed, and the better of the directors, Buck Mifflin, and plausibly Clifford Bunn, the cameraman with his own, rather good sense of things, the show could easily handle changes in crew. The core players needed to hold on, however. It was their exclusivity and loyalty Emery needed to secure. Loyalty was somehow both rare and incessant
in the television business. It existed in pockets of extreme loyalty, but just outside of these small niches and nooks, there was absolutely none. .
His talk with Calvin was a priority, and would come soon enough, though there were other problems that needed attention first. A new staff-writer position had opened, with Jon Harris having vacated. Harris had been a new hire, coming on near the end of second season. He had never seemed to fit in well, and didn’t get along with anyone. His departure was expected, and with the pressure of the network coming down on the third season, he had been the first egg to crack. Harris had been in charge of commercial writes. This was a lower-than-low position, but necessary. Most sponsors now had their own small studios on commission to create commercials. The networks gave air time for these commercials in exchange for the sponsor ‘presenting’ the show in question, which meant money. This was the traditional way of things. There were a few smaller companies, however, that still preferred the manner of advertising that radio had developed so long ago: Commercials written by someone associated with the show in question, to better match the material presented with the product pitch. If a commercial was to air during Bennie Mink’s Comedy Cavalcade, they asked Mink’s writers to create the commercial, and Bennie Mink to star in it. These commercials were highly personalized, and ran a better chance of securing viewers on the product.
Jon Harris had been hired to do this for The Other Side, and had written commercial spots for many products, spots that the companies would then air during the show. This gave the commercials more unity with a program, whether the program liked it or not. In one such commercial, Emery had agreed to stand and endorse Latham’s Razors. It was all part of the television persona, and had netted Emery more money than any single episode could. If they had to air commercials during the show, at least the commercials could somewhat match the look of the show. If they wanted Emery to endorse with his image, to act in a commercial, at least he could do so in a way that felt less intrusive to viewers.
There was now an opening on The Other Side to fill this position. With Jon gone, Emery needed a writer to fulfill the obligations already contracted. He needed a commercial man, and Emery sure as hell did not want to begin writing the phony things, himself, or sick any of his story writers on the job. At first, he had thought to have Rowe find someone, but doubted that Rowe would do so with any sort of expedience. Over the past few days however, Emery had struck upon a wondrous idea for filling the position It involved contacting an old friend of sorts, and this was something Emery had decided to do just that day. He knew a commercial man, and not the usual sort, but an old pro.
After he finalized the rewrites for the following day, Emery glanced over the sheet of paper his secretary had prepared, noting that she had located the telephone number he had asked her to find. Emery smiled and imagined the call, how it might play out, in which manner he would approach the job offer. After a moment of pleasantness in his mind, he lifted the receiver and dialed the number. Having a phone installed in his minor writing room with each shoot was a thing the gaffers accomplished with grudge, as something seemed always to go wrong, but a personal phone on set was a new benefit that Emery found he enjoyed much, and it was of strong use to him. He was never so far from Beth during the day, if he could call every so often and reaffirm his existence.
“Hello?” came through the telephone.
“Uh, hello. I’m calling for Mr. Aaron, please,” Emery said, jovial.
“Oh, for Maury?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m an old friend. Is this Mrs. Aaron?”
“Well, that’s who I am, but you’re in for some bad news, I’m afraid.”
“Oh?” Emery felt his stomach drop with the weight of the unexpected, as well as the now suspected.
“My husband died of a stroke last year. He can’t come to the phone right now.”
This last statement, meant to add a touch of humor to the troublesome news, was lost on Emery. His mind turned on itself and, in a mode he did not fully understand at first, began to hate itself. He felt incredibly alone. Everyone was dying, lately.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t know,” he confessed, shocked.
“How did you know him?”
“We worked together at WKCR. I was a writer with him there.”
“Oh, is this Emery Asher? Mr. Asher?”
“Well, it is, yes.”
“Say, what do you know! Young man, Maury used to talk about you all the time. He loved your show, you know. Only missed the first episode. It meant a lot to him that you were doing so well.”
“I- I don’t know what to say. Thank you. Uh, and him. I- I should have called sooner. I’m so sorry.”
“He would have liked to hear from you. Oh, but this is just the way some things happen, I’m afraid.”
“I see. You’re right about that, I suppose. I think I’m at a loss for words, however… Again, I’m truly sorry to hear about Maury, and for your loss, Mrs. Aaron.”
“Were you calling just to catch up?”
“Yes. Well, no. No, in fact I was actually going to offer him a job on the show, if he wanted it.”
“Over in New York? Oh, he would have loved that.”
“Actually, we shoot The Other Side in Los Angeles. Out in Hollywood.”
“He wouldn’t have liked that quite as much, but boy I sure would have. He always loved the snow when it came around, but I only ever wanted to live in a sunny place. Oh, I do miss him.”
“I’ll leave you be. Thank you for the kind words. Your husband was a good man and a great friend.”
“Well, one day I’ll be sure to tell him you said so.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
The insects gnashed their jaws and waited in line, entering the building one by one for the ceremony. There was tinny chatter between them. Peppering the audience were the forms of people, true human beings, oblivious to the grotesque infiltrators. All was interbreeding. Industry and insect. Bug and beast and all the bare, American jealousies. Emery was so accustomed to seeing these abominable insects that he no longer felt afraid of them, or cared for their presence in any way beyond the general sigh of foolery. They owned Hollywood in a near felonious way. They had infested the television, the theaters, the radio, and even the books. They were the rule-makers and monitors of the universe, and they had come to Earth to possess her. Soon, they might even lay their terrible eggs in the dogs and cats. Almost every major art and industry had been usurped by the flood of the insects, and where they laid their eggs was in every man, woman, and child that might possibly buy a product. Mr. McCarthy had been terrified of the communists, digging through the arts and business world with his Christian shovel, to announce the scourge and imprison many, but the true, hidden danger had always been the insects. They gave Emmys and mated with one’s neighbors in secret.
When the time came to accept the show’s third Emmy, and Emery’s fifth, he tiredly rose to his feet, affecting a false cheer and a legitimate shock. He made his way to the stage and the podium, past Alfred Tuehler and Claude Bernoulli, actors out of the motion picture industry, and not television. They were the dual hosts of the Emmy award ceremony, and this was a strategic move on the award board’s part. The image of Hollywood personnel giving the television award made television seem more applicable, more popular, and just as worthy of viewing. These hosts of the night spoke warmly as Emery passed them and Bernoulli even gave the writer a slight pat on the upper arm.
The podium was solitary and alone before the jittering people and bugs. The sound of applause diminished as he stepped before the microphone. The grind of each carapace against its neighbor in the small seats quieted. The hands slamming together and occasional hoots ended. Emery turned his head from the microphone and cleared his throat.
“Hi everyone,” he said after a moment.
The Cargo had been the story of Mike Renton, a worker who packed boxes into freight cars each day. This protagonist’s job was to make sure the boxes were stacked properly and tied do
wn for the long trip by rail to the other side of the country. In the story’s first scene, Mr. Renton dropped one of the many boxes and it opened. Curious, he discovered that there was nothing inside. He proceeded to open several other boxes, only to discover they were all void of material. He began to ask questions of his foreman, then, but the foreman was quick to push him back to work, offering no explanation. For the remainder of the first act, Renton puzzled over the boxes, opening a few more and peeking in, only to discover each was entirely empty, though strangely, the boxes seemed to hold much weight until opened. A cinder dick noticed the worker’s search and barked at Renton to get back to work.
Act II had Renton being called into a room with the company head, a shipping magnate, something quite rare for a man of the labor caliber. The cinder dick, it seemed, had reported Renton to the boss. The magnate asked where Mr. Renton was from, and Renton gave a vague, “East of here.” He continued responding in this vague manner for a bit of time, to several questions about himself and his general station, before the magnate told him that the content of the boxes was incredibly valuable, and that the worker would understand soon enough. Renton was confused at this, and repeated that there was nothing in the boxes. The shipping magnate then ushered him back to post, where yet more of the day’s boxes were waiting to be stacked. The magnate did not leave, however. He stayed with Mr. Renton.