Thank You and Good Night

by Ray Succre

  “But not us.”

  “Yeah, not us. I’m sorry, Em.”

  Beth would be quiet for a time. Despite that Emery would feel much guilt, this was canon for her. In those periods of Emery’s unrest and fidgety, occupational scouring, she had always become quiet, attempting to leave him be, to let him focus on his task. It was a necessary, loving sort of abandonment, and unavoidable. There was an unfortunate paradox there, however. Those spans of time in which he was most lost were the same spans in which he needed her most. His love for her was keen, but his mood and activity could be exasperating to her, and he knew this. Emery was too much, too often. It was somewhat the narrative of his life.

  He accepted the quiet, the distance she kept when he was in the midst of certain failures. She kept her opinion on the matter to herself. There was a little shame in Emery over this. He would see it happen again, and would try to make the best of it, to throw himself into his work with vehemence, which would only distance him from her the more. She had been through as much as Emery. The pending, second lawsuit from Banry, a thing that had probably served as a catalyst in getting the show cancelled, was draining him of cheer by the day, and Beth seemed distant herself. Perhaps it did not need to be this way. The show was cancelled, but this time, the cancellation was a true grave. It was over. Moving on from this ending, together, might be exactly what the Ashers needed. He had a time slot in his heart that was now vacant, and he so wanted his family to get in there, to nest and dig deep, and quickly. Perhaps it was time to make that happen. Emery hadn’t touched his wife in months.

  The sentimental served him no purpose. He needed to possess himself, take his dismissal and return it with action. He needed to make good. Living full measure meant the complete cease of whining and flowery emotion. It meant finding the reality of a thing and lording over it. Being a man who remains warm to family, like his father had been. Emery made a quiet vow not to be dismal in his home this time around. He did not want to rerun the foul mood and disparate complaint of the previous cancellations. These were poltergeists that had several times descended upon his household, and he would not numb his home with such gloominess again. This cancellation was permanent, and he would come out of it a good husband and father, not an alien with whom his family would struggle to interact. He would get moving quickly and keep her love very close to him. His goal was manifest: Love and be loved. Keep the veil of setback and his crawling, sinewy doubt from setting their awful roots in his home. Beth and the girls deserved better.

  “Listen, Bernie. Everyone’s off for the holiday. Let’s give ‘em Christmas, then give the word a day or so after,” Emery advised.

  “Fine by me. So long as everyone knows by the 28th. We don’t want anyone on the crew showin’ up to a condemned set and throwing a panic.”

  The matter of Emery’s reputation was a different struggle, and he had yet to find a resolve in the matter. Orson Banry was a vengeful man. Emery’s name had been tarnished unduly, but the public, no matter how much they liked or disliked someone, never thought much about the undue. The information they had to decipher on most matters was deciphered for them, and often in an exacerbating, sensational way. Many had listened, in late November, to the string of words on the news: “Other Side host Emery Asher has once again found himself in hot water after further complaints of plagiarism.” The term ‘complaint’ was often used instead of ‘claim’. The two words had different meanings. You could claim you had been wronged, and maybe you had, or maybe you had not, but a complaint usually only surfaced after a wrongdoing. The word ‘complaints’ in the broadcast about Emery’s legal trouble, aside from being unduly plural, gave the connotation that someone was complaining about his chicanery, not simply alleging there may or may not have been any. This swayed the public a bit, just enough to make suspicion from scruple. One was far more damaging than the other.

  All of Los Angeles had read the headline: “Plagiarism Not Confined to This World, Can Exist on Other Side.” This condemned Emery as being guilty long before the lawsuit concluded. A headline stating that plagiarism can exist on his show meant there was little question. ‘Can’ inferred a result, as if the tests were in, and plagiarism had been detected. Emery was being called a thief, even though the article’s headline was a summation of Orson Banry’s contention. The safe subjectiveness of ‘can’ kept the headline in the clear, but the damage was done. Headlines were the compass for a reader’s opinion. They were brazen and clear and considered by many, dangerously, to be infallible summaries.

  The words spun and turned and created little vortexes into which his name was pulled and dirtied on many levels. Why would the public be duped by such an obvious ploy of sensationalism and semi-conscious slander? Orson Banry was angry, yes, but was mostly just drumming up attention for himself. He truly thought Emery had stolen material from him. Emery found it surprising that so many seemed to be falling for the claim. Perhaps this preyed upon the same process by which children so easily believed in the existence of a fat, red-suited man that could fly and who did so for the express purpose of giving them gifts for mere good behavior. There were certain manners and habits of humanity that gave rise to outlandish myths, and these myths, as ugly and sordid as they could be, had an aptitude for creating things both beautiful and wondrous. All that was needed was rumor, and all rumor needed to gain societal strength was repetition. The more talk a thing was given, the more believable that thing became, and a sensational story was always given talk. It was the creator of legend and mass suspicion. It made Other Side tales and paranoia. Repetition of the fantastic was the varnish in a campaigning politician’s trunk of tricks, and it could be enlightening or condemning.

  The public heard and read these statements, this talk, and the damage was done in the mere existence of nouns in proximity of one another: Other Side, Asher, Plagiarism. If you heard them enough, the words became common together, and empowered one another. If you read them enough, the words were an equal and acceptable alternate to truth. The final cancellation had come almost in unison with these headlines and broadcasts. Many people surmised these to be purposely correlated. The rumor surfaced that he had been fired, and his show shut down, because he stole from others.

  Dozier lifted a flask from his desk drawer and, wiggling it back and forth to indicate little whiskey was left, spoke with finality.

  “Say our goodbyes to the show?” he asked.

  “I wouldn’t mind saying those, sure,” Emery responded. Dozier uncapped, took a swig, and handed the last of the whiskey to Emery. For a moment, Bernie grimaced and clutched at his stomach.

  “God... I hate ‘em. I really hate ‘em. Rest of that whiskey is yours.”

  “Still with the ulcers?”

  “Yeah. Miserable trouble. Never goes away, you know.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it.”

  “They’re a problem, but honestly, they’re the least of mine right now. The big one is just that I’m impotent here,” Dozier said then, “I can’t do anything more. But you… truth is, if you get to your typewriter, like you do, and Rowe follows suit, there’s maybe a chance you could pull another Asher miracle and get your show-”

  “No. No, I don’t want it anymore. Too much betrayal in the workings. Maybe not in the personal way, but just as cruel. Or at least, after the fact. And too much destruction, Bernie. This… this all just gets our hopes up and then pulls our guts out. It’s too unfair and… there’s so much pressure.”

  “I get you there.”

  “And it just keeps turning on you and you can only handle so much before that wears you down,” Emery said.

  “Yeah, I feel pretty worn down about now,” Dozier agreed. Emery lifted the flask and drained the remaining whiskey, little more than a shot. The goodbye was finalized in a sort of alcoholic tradition. The anti-toast.

  “We should just let it die,” Emery said.

  The ex-executive producer and once-avid network man sat behind his desk, nodding with a touch of misery, thou
gh some resolve.

  “All right. I don’t blame you for that at all,” he said.

  “You know,” Emery added, “I uh, have it on good faith that you keep a different bottle in your bottom drawer, something real top shelf, for special visits. That true, Bernard?” Dozier chuckled at this.

  “Eh, yes and no. It’s in the bottom drawer, sure. Pint of vodka. It’s Victor, nothin’ special. Certainly not top shelf. I actually keep the cheaper shit for myself, not the good stuff.” Emery’s mouth curled.

  “You drink that straight?” he asked.

  “A little, here and there. Chase with Bromo. I can’t, most days. And only my aunt calls me Bernard, Em.”

  “Well, screw it. What say you and I drink it?”

  “Right now?”

  “Yeah. All of it.” Dozier thought this over a moment before opening the drawer.

  “That’s an idea. Not sure if I like it much, but I’m willing to get behind it, for now. You’ll be drinking more than I will. I’m out of Bromo.”

  And so the temporarily useless men had mild swigs from the pint and talked out a few details regarding the cancellation and their personal lives. The major rights to the show were still possessed by Emery, but now that the show was dead, and considering he did not want to attempt reviving it, he might sell off those rights to CBS and be done with it entirely. They would likely pay him a decent sum, and they could archive the show and possibly push it to reruns eventually. That could be future money and Emery would get a piece of it. The show was now a carcass, and it needed to be mummified a certain way if it was going to be preserved and seen again. Emery might need the money in the years to come, and CBS might be more inclined to give the show subsequent airings if they owned it outright. The network would likely own the show and all things Other Side soon enough. Dozier mentioned going up north to visit his sisters in a week, in time for New Years, and of spending Christmas with a woman he had been seeing, and who he seemed particularly fond of keeping quietly to himself.

  “Bernie, I’m not judging, but... you’re divorcing, right?”

  “No, I wouldn’t do that.”

  “Then I gotta ask... why the other girls? I know you’ve got a wife at home, and if there’s no divorce, what’s the story?” Bernie thought about this a moment before choosing to answer.

  “Doesn’t like me.”

  “Your wife?”

  “Yeah. Estelle has never liked me. Not even when we got engaged.”

  “That’s terrible. Was there a baby on the way, then?”

  “That’s the story. We didn’t even know each other, really. But she lost it pretty late, and... Damn, this is getting a little personal.”

  “No problem, I shouldn’t have asked.”

  “Naw, it’s... sort of nice to tell somebody about it.”

  “Well, if you’d like to talk, I have two ears.”

  “By the time that happened, with losin’ the baby, we were married and she’s... very Catholic.”

  “I see. That’s a difficult position.”

  “She doesn’t mind when I see other women because then I leave her alone.”

  “That’s awful.”

  “It’s wonderful, actually. For a long time, there were no other women, just Estelle and I, and like I said, she’s never liked me. So... we don’t really fool around together more than maybe once every couple of years. Hardly ever. It’s funny. That’s the only time I feel like I’m cheating. When I’m, you know, being with Estelle. So, it’s complex, but it’s real simple. I’m married and I’m single. Best or worst of both worlds, I suppose. Estelle would see other men if she were bolder. I wouldn’t blame her. It’d be good for her, I think, because I’m not so great and nobody should be stuck like that, you know, but that’s not really her way of thinking.”

  “I’m sorry, Bernie. I didn’t know your home life was so... abstract. Marriage has been much better at my house.”

  “Good. Hold on to that. When something goes right, you have to keep it close and be worth it. You uh, got any plans for Christmas? I’m changing the subject, here.” Emery smiled at this.

  “Yeah, a few plans. Beth and I are going to see Bing Crosby at the Coconut Grove tomorrow night, and my oldest is helping with makeup for a play at her school early in the day on Christmas Eve. My shopping list is a daddy’s list, and I am necessarily au curant with the season. And,as always, my birthday falls on Christmas, so I get to celebrate these two things in one mode. I’ve got four busy days to go.”

  “That’s a curse. Buddy of mine had his birthday and his wedding anniversary both on Thanksgiving. The priest and the pilgrims two took away all his thunder.”

  “That’s unfortunate.”

  “You a big giver on Christmas?” Bernie asked. Emery grunted.

  “To a fault. We’ll have a nice day with the kids, is the thing, and I prefer to spoil people on the day. Enjoy it all and have the day out, which the nature of it. And then I’ll likely spend the late night at my desk with a bottle of correction fluid. With persistence, I’ll be able to stimulate the new pilot I have to start soon. Christmas or not, and birthday be damned, I’m in a serious bind if I don’t find something soon. I’ll probably start something tonight.”

  “Tonight, huh? That’s getting back on the horse quick, even for you.”

  “Shows don’t write themselves. If I’m gonna have to pitch something in the near future, I’d better have a story to two, and figure out what I’m pitching.”

  “You know, it’s true what they say about you, Asher. It’s all true: You are indeed television’s last angry young man.”

  “I’ll be forty in less than a week. I’m not so young anymore, or angry.”

  “Oh, then let me welcome you aboard the middle-aged train. You’re somewhat late. You can pick up your ulcers at the baggage check.”

  Emery left the office after relieving Dozier of near half the pint’s content. Bernie had only two small sips and had needed to cease drinking. The warmth in Emery’s gut was now matched by the sting in his mind over the third and final cancellation. The weariness in his bones and temper, a thing that had become overwhelming in the last two years, was thankfully dissipating. It was over, really. He was screwed, but also free. There was a certain sense of liberation that Emery felt over the show being fastened into the electric chair and given its final moment to ride out the lightning. With this relief, however, was a dastardly sense of loss, and a sharp point in his heart regarding his ability to write. He had begun to feel the weight of the production as more than simple pressure, but a sort of death knell, and while this was now behind him, for better or worse, he could not but feel he had failed to navigate the realm of television, for once.

  It seemed simple enough that a crew party would in order, a fun, drunken, energetic, and then sad and somber and resigned party. This would have to come soon, but the holiday would make that difficult. Perhaps just after.

  Larry had missed his chance for an Emmy, which was a shame, and Moffat’s side-project scripts had petered out with little luck. Emery’s family was at home, the three girls, but his family was on set, all the busy hands and personnel. He had warmth in him when hearing the word ‘crew’. It no longer meant the conglomeration of various workers to get a job done. It had a familial tone to him now, a sense of fellowship. It was Buck spreading the flu to everyone on the damn set, season one. It was all the gabbing about what a legendary prick Lance Mayor had been during the shoot of the episode he starred in, season three. It was signing Nina’s cast after she fell down an embankment while shooting three short scenes in San Francisco. It was even the bruise on Emery’s head from Todd’s drop of the boom mic, three times in one day, late in the previous season. These goodbyes were necessary for Emery as much as they were for anyone else. Goodbyes were the way things died, and without them, death lingered beyond its use. He would let them have Christmas, and inform everyone of the cancellation soon after. He would throw a party for all.

  Emery reached his car and, kn
owing the coldness December had likely placed inside, decided not to drive just yet. He would leave the car in the lot for an hour or so and work off the drunkenness he had taken on in Bernie’s soon-to-be empty office. Fuzzed in vodka, Emery set out for a chilled walk through the studio neighborhood, and perhaps beyond. He had studio chores extant for the coming week, but after the frayed ends had been clipped, he might not visit Television City for some time, or plausibly ever again. The future was gray and fastened to the brutish ballast of his past awards and punches.

  The evening air codded his lungs in a blanket of smoke as he walked. He felt briefly to be less a celebrity and more a patent citizen. This was an unexpected modification, but being tossed out on one’s ear was an accountable diminisher of a man’s mood. The outskirts of Television City were less clean, and the priority of this area was more in league with taverns and small businesses, some of which catered to the nearby studios while others seemed more propped in the general. This was one of the muddled, high-contrast berths in which Los Angeles television and her cameras met the rest of the world, a hasty rampart between the makers and the watchers. Emery felt as if he had been achromatized, much alike with the drab weather in which he now walked. His mood was the sort of beast that carried a flag, proud of its potency. No walk would sate it. He needed to feel sorry for himself, just a little, and reflect until the thing slept. To bring himself up, Emery would have to paddle through the recent months and put labels on all the little mistakes.

  The bars were scattered here and there, but in his buzzed state, he kept clear of them. Arriving home drunk would displease Beth, and embarrass him in front of the girls, who were now old enough to judge Emery’s drinking somewhat accurately, especially Rebecca. She was running for her junior high’s presidency, a campaign that indulged Emery’s heart much, despite that Rebecca's school would likely intervene and obstruct, being that she was not male. Long ago, Emery had been the president of his own middle school. Those days were more than gone; they were jurassic in age. They had not only passed, but had been shattered and crushed to cinders by the weight of world war and a hearty career brimming with hazard, grand achievement, failure, and spans of ill-being. The only nanny that could keep those young memories sharp was a racy and energetic ego.