Thank You and Good Night

by Ray Succre

  As a child, sharing his birthday with Christmas had been little trouble. He was raised Jewish, and the Christmas holiday, so revered by his classmates, was but a comma in the span of his school year. He had enjoyed the good feel of this holiday, though had not been allowed by the doctrine of his religion to celebrate it. Beth had changed so many things in his life, or else he had changed so much for her. A Unitarian, though admittedly quite fallen, he could both study and celebrate this holiday with whatever abandon he felt to uphold, and there was much of it. He loved Christmas. The children looked forward to it with more emphasis than they did most things, even their own birthdays. Emery had come to do the same.

  The German tradition of the tree was a pleasant one, and adorning it with small trinkets and baubles was a fastidious sort of fun. For Emery, the silly (but almost necessary) recitation of A Visit from St. Nicholas, as well as the singing of various carols, was a touch too heartwarming and overly sentimental. There was an odd, potent sort of nostalgia involved for others, however, and he had no real right to judge what made them so happy in the otherwise awful bleakness of December. A small group of people celebrating in an odd way could be looked upon as asinine or abnormal, but when the whole damn town did it, there was reason to use the word “magic” in all of the Christmas ads and billboards. That sensation of the otherworldly, in the cheery phantasms of generosity and celebration, conjured moods and could alter one’s stock among others. Christmas and America seemed to operate in a fitting arrangement, and there was, due to the popularity of Santa Claus stories and legend-based traditions, an element of fantasy in the very air. There was magic enough to warrant the term.

  Rebecca’s school was putting on A Christmas Carol. Emery had always enjoyed this story, even though his daughter was only working backstage in the production. The purchasing of presents was a thrill, and knowing there were two wrapped boxes addressed to him, then sitting beneath the needle-laden tree, captured him into the general melee of the season with relish. One of them looked like a box of typewriter ribbons. The shape was a match for his brand.

  In four days, he would sit at the base of the tree, unemployed, and admire his girls as they opened the gifts settled there. He would open his few gifts and try not to think about his inurned show. He would focus on his daughters, on his wife, these remaining reasons for being who he was and for continuing, for having a heart.

  Beth would be so pleased with what he had found for her. It was wrapped and now nestled against the few other presents at the base of the tree. Through Buck Mifflin, he had gained knowledge of a used-bookstore owner in the San Fernando Valley who had a glass case full of exorbitantly rare books. Emery had driven there with Larry nearly three weeks ago on a Christmas mission, and he had succeeded. Beth would find wrapped in dainty paper the hardbound, first-edition Collected Works of John Keats, nearly sixty years old and in wondrous condition. Though she had not mentioned Keats in nearly ten years, he remembered a scathing conversation back in college when she had castigated Emery’s abundant praise of Whitman, and proceeded then to declare irishman Keats one of the greatest poets to have ever walked the Earth. It was their first real argument, short and inconsequent as it had been. The book would be a nice gift that would, after initial reception, direct her back to their earlier days, even for a moment. She would adore the book, he thought, and it was this sense of pleasing others that Emery would rely on to get him through the season, until he could find work again.

  Emery was also four days from his 40th birthday, and already had been put through more than one meat-grinder, more than one unsettling sprint through the minefield of television. This was more than most endured in a lifetime. The trick was to keep moving, to sprint more when tired than when energetic, to burst his lungs streaking ahead where other runners tired and fell to gasps. He needed to move and jump when the explosions came, keep his head above his feet and get to secure ground. This was with the typewriter, a simple device that let him tap into his very joy with a tale. The clacks and worn keys were busy ants before a busy man with all the world between. He was self-appointed in his art, and he loved it, after all.

  In an hour, his walk having left behind those occasional bumbles of misbalance, Emery caught sight of a small figurine in the window of a pawn shop. He entered the shop and relieved the object from the narrow shelf, bringing it to the counter. The object would be another small gift to place under the tree, wrapped in whatever paper he chose. This was more of a blind gift. He knew she enjoyed figurines, but had no idea if this one was anything she might enjoy. He was making a stab in the holiday dark because the item was pretty and Beth was pretty. That was all. He felt sneaky, which was a better sensation than what he could have been feeling. It was while counting the money before the pawn broker that he was recognized, and consequently, shocked.

  “Henry Asher, right?” Emery glanced up quickly upon hearing the name of his father.

  “What?”

  “From The Other Side. You’re Henry Asher.” Understanding crept through him: The similarity of sound, of names, on the tip of someone’s brain.

  “Uh yes, that’s right, friend,” he said, imagining himself as his father.

  “I love the show. Was that everything?” Yes, that was everything. The show was now in the past. He stood in a pawn shop, perhaps symbolically. He was without job and now rummaged in his mind for ways to clean himself, to maintain his artistic hygiene, though not monetarily; he needed to handle himself spiritually, emotionally, and with as little damage as possible.

  “Yes, that’s all,” he said of the figurine.

  “It’s a cute one. For the missus?”

  “It is, yes.”

  “Ah, good man. You got a great show, Mr. Asher. Never miss it. Tonight, right?”

  “Uh, yes. Tonight. Eight sharp,” Emery lied. At eight p.m. on CBS, people would discover that The Other Side was not airing, and that it had been replaced with The CBS Fantasy Night, a one-hour show that would exhibit some new animated thing about Rudolph the Reindeer designed to giddy up the kids, followed with carols by The Ben Carlson Singers. One could be sure these productions would be chocked with commercial breaks to tease out various products from all the major retail players that sought to create a public acquaintance with Christmas. Some of these products, like Vesper Soda, sought to align themselves with purchasers in a way that might make the soda seem like religious tradition. Airing the special was a smart move on the network’s part.

  When confronted with Christmas, fans of The Other Side would temporarily forget the show they had come to admire, especially with excited kids to contend with, and by the time these fans realized the full cancellation, in the weeks to come, their attention would be drained from the holiday, itself, and the energetic fizz of a new year. After this, there would be nothing that could be done but whine, and CBS would have finalized their decision on another show to take up the slack of the time slot. The network would have easier sailing with the cancellation, thanks to the holidays. They did not want another round of Emery’s righteous campaigning and complaint.

  “Well, all right. Tonight it is. I’ll see ya on the Other Side, then.”

  “Sure thing,” Emery said, smiling and weak. The broker counted and then deposited the money in his register and began writing out the receipt.

  “I hope the missus smiles when she opens it,” he said when done, handing over the figurine without bag, along with the hastily scrawled receipt. Emery wanted to cry, but then changed his mind and did not. He wanted to tell the man to shut his mouth. He wanted less to occur than what did. He wanted more to happen than could happen. For the moment, he wanted to be sober and go home.

  “Uh, thanks. I think she will,” he said with a false cheer. As the writer reached the door, the pawn-broker added another sentiment to the mire of emotion in Emery’s mind.

  “Merry Christmas, Mr. Asher.”

  The air was cold and evening was approaching. He could feel the slight perturbation in his knee as he wa
lked. The injury was long gone, but cold weather could return an amount of brief agitation to the knee. Emery made the long walk to his car, faster as he went, and started the engine. After warming up for a few minutes, he pulled out of the lot. His body was a stinking sort of entity that exuded smoke, sweat, and the fumes of cheap vodka. He would go home and bathe, eat, and then settle in to watch television with his girls. After the daughters were in bed, he would tell Beth about the cancellation. It was a cold night and there was more than one form of weather encroaching on the Asher home, but the night could have been worse. Tomorrow, he would take the family out for a day of fun and frivolity.

  A week later, after the goodbye party with crew and with Emery giving much thought to the future, the network did choose to go back on a particular resolve. They chose to let the remaining episodes of the fifth season reach the air according to schedule, minus the episode that would have gone out during the Christmas week. The show being aired to its completion pleased Emery and the now ex-crew, but the airing of the remaining season was done more to sate sponsors who had invested in the episodes and requested air-time, than to keep alive a thing they now saw as dead matter. A brief change in the credit animations allowed the final episode to air with a dedication to Solomon Jamison. The opposite to crashing a wine bottle against the bow of a new, seaworthy craft, this dedication to Sol and the last authentic run of the credits were, for the most part, the true chiseling of an epitaph over the resting place of things that had once lived well.

  ACT III

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  He had brought the mail along, that he might delve into it at some point during the vacation, though he had already read the loose collection of letters and offers by the time the plane reached New York. Several of these letters contained details and nuances that needed to be ironed out and given thought. He sat in the uncomfortable wooden chair outside the cabin at Cayuga Lake, sipping Old Forester and going over the offers again. Gaining a buzz during the day, in spring warmth and sunlight, outdoors, was a savored treat and one he enjoyed much. Vivian and Rebecca were inside, sitting on the floor and slowly piecing together a rather large puzzle. Beth had driven into town to purchase some particular amenities she needed.

  They family had gone for a nature hike in the morning, something that Emery found to contain a certain peak of nostalgia for him, and though William had not made it to the lake that year, it felt as if he were present, so strong were Emery’s memories of past visits to the unchanging place. Rebecca and Vivian, however, were not impressed with the vacation. They had spent more time working over their puzzle than taking account of their surroundings, bored as the two girls were. There was a sad truth in that his daughters found Cayuga to be slow and meaningless, out-of-the-way, and never in the mode to live up to their father’s descriptions. Emery made his trips to Cayuga Lake sound as if he had discovered the fabled and unguarded city of gold, but the girls found this place to be damp air, common spiders, moss with little color riding the scent of rotting wood, and there were few other children present. Really, the only interesting thing they had discovered was that bread molded a brownish-orange there, rather than the blue color encountered in California.

  Cayuga Lake was more a place for people that wanted to set out their boats for a weekend and then sit there, pointlessly floating, or perhaps fishing in the slight. Most visited in the summer, so the current state of the place was noticeably quiet and sparse. This was a certain form of torture to Rebecca and Vivian. The two daughters were bored, having never formed the same sorts of memories he had, when young. There was no nostalgia to spice the place for them. He understood their boredom and had concluded that this would be the last time he brought his daughters to Cayuga Lake. The summer stamping ground, in coming years, would be a small retreat for the parents solely.

  Emery had been invited to many places for speaking engagements, and with a touch of reluctance, began accepting a line-up for a lecture circuit. The most ambitious of these engagements was to take place in Hong Kong. The last time he had visited that quarter of the world, it had been to kill Japanese soldiers in gulches and atop large, densely vegetated hills. Now he would be extolling the nature of television and discussing the way things were going with programming in general. He was capable with the subject and he had already accepted many speaking engagements in the wake of the cancellation. They paid a small amount each, though a run of them would add up quickly, and pay quite well. A decent year’s wage could be made in less than two months, so long as he could travel and speak that much, and provided he continued being relevant enough be given speaking engagements. This could be maintained for a short while, giving him time to find a steadier job, another show. It would save the Ashers this year, but doubtful would it continue for long.

  With a careful eye, Emery had begun setting up somewhat of a tour, by choosing each engagement specifically by neck-of-the-woods and week. Sometimes even by the very day. In a month, he would depart for Baltimore, and for nearly five weeks, he would give over two dozen lectures across the globe. There might be more lectures if they came along and fit into the schedule. He had a month to write in comfort before beginning the tour, and would then write in a scatter while on the road, but until the tour was over, he had no real ability to accept anything that required his full attention. His larger duty now was to outline what he was going to speak about. He needed a few lectures nailed down and memorized, free of potential conjecture and prattling, and a definite outline for some worthy talking points he might use to bridge certain lulls.

  The first and thickest letter outlined something that Emery had initially thought of interest. He was being offered another television show, which was a bit of a dream. He had continually hoped and waited for such an offer. Unfortunately, this particular offer was quite specifically bad. There were his standards to keep in mind, and at least a dollop of integrity to maintain, and the show being offered was embarrassing, among other problems. A team of three executive producers at ABC wanted to bring The Other Side to their network. This was an excellent idea, but had obstacles. He had sold the rights to The Other Side, and the nature of CBS’ ownership undermined the idea of taking it to another network. To accept this new offer, Emery would have to re-design every bone in the animal’s body. The show would have to be changed so heavily in setup that it would not closely resemble The Other Side, and the name would have to change. It would be a facsimile of The Other Side that would exhibit a different face and credentials. They wanted Emery to host and write this new form of the show, though he was not being offered creative control. If he accepted, he would answer to someone creatively, and that someone had already been chosen. This executive’s idea for the theme and format of the new show was both bizarre and unlikely to ever reach the air.

  CUT TO:

  EXT. STONEHENGE - LATE NIGHT

  The tall stones and surrounding, grassy field sit beneath a starry sky.

  Slowly, we see the stones brighten by a growing bonfire in the middle of the main circle. No one is about. We cut to the bonfire circle. From the darkness comes a man, a DRUID in full cloak, toward the fire. We can not see his face, just the hands and the cloak. He carries a bundle of herbs and, as he reaches the fire, tosses this bundle into the flames. They rush higher for a moment. The camera shakes from the short surge of power this creates. Once the flames have settled, we see the quiet druid draw back his hood, exposing his face to us.

  DRUID ASHER:

  Greetings friends. I come to you from the great well of history. In this hub of the supernatural, amidst these stones, the source of magic and the realm of fantasy are not fiction, but fact. I have lived these thousands of years with one purpose: To share what I have seen with those who would listen. I have seen much, and I’ve traveled long and far to reach these enchanted stone figures. They contain a great, hidden power. Here, I can tell you that the forgotten world of magic is still ever strong and ever sharp. Sit with me a spell, and I’ll share with you those stories of
people and events that few have seen or known. Sit with me, if you would seek the other-worldly, and experience these… Stories from the Stones.

  FADE TO:

  EXT. CAYUGA LAKE - 4:00 PM

  The resort in a quiet phase with few visitors.

  EMERY sits in the chair outside the rental cabin near the lake’s edge.

  EMERY:

  (after a sip and wince)

  Christ, why not just film a block of swiss?

  CUT TO:

  A comfortable chair. Smoke lilting up from an ashtray. The breeze meeting Emery’s slight laughter from the idea of a particular program. He dismissed the ridiculous pitch and would decline the offer in a civil way soon after vacation. He was not begging yet; there was enough money to carry him for some time, especially with the upcoming tour. Emery crossed one leg over the other and set the letter aside with a sigh.

  Cayuga Lake had been many Summers of Emery’s life, but in the wake of his show’s cancellation, he had needed a way to balance himself. With this in mind, he had brought his family to the lake for their annual vacation months early. It was near the end of April, and still quite cold. The snow had melted, but little more than that.

  Two months prior, while somewhat ignoring (and winning) Banry’s second lawsuit, Emery had given his lawyer the task of looking into his deal with Pacific Pictures, for the purpose of seeing if there was a somewhat safe fashion in which he might tell them to go fuck themselves. His lawyer assured him he could get out of the deal with only minimal damage, and Emery had begun this process in his spare time, but now that The Other Side was officially deceased, he was forced to view this arrangement with Pacific without his usual reservation. He needed to see the deal, not with his dark, brown eyes, those Beth admired, but with his lesser, green eyes. Money was going to become quite a pressure in the coming year. Pacific, of course, had been notified he was seeking to leave the arrangement, and they no longer wore velvet gloves when he approached. The commandment they had given was clear: Two scripts by the end of June. No more waiting. They wanted the fully revised, final scripts, with the changes they had asked, or else they would put him in his nicest suit and throw him into an alligator swamp of litigation. The third script, The Passing of the Hand, was out of his hands entirely, and he had no idea what had become of the story, but at least they were not hounding him over yet more changes to it.