by Ray Succre
“Well, I’ve never been much for fishing, not since I was a kid, but I’d give it a shot,” Emery agreed.
“Good enough for me. Next weekend?”
“I can do that, I think. Hey, let me ask you something, Gary: Is there a specific, geological reason why the trout will be more plentiful at this supposedly secret spot of yours? Probably something to do with sediment or whatnot?” Emery asked.
“Am I really that much of a jackass?”
“No. Yes. Well, no.”
Gary snorted and shook his head.
“Sadly, yes, there is a palpable reason why the trout are plentiful, and yes, the reason is somewhat geological.”
“Tell me this benefactor is sediment. It’s always about sediment with you types.”
“It’s not sediment. This time. I won’t bore you with the details.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You can owe me. Hey listen, my son’s coming to visit, too, next week, and I’m pretty sure he’ll want to come out with us. At least I hope he will. Teaches European History for the junior college in Santa Rosa. Out in California.”
“Hey, I almost spoke there once. Couldn’t get the time, though,” Emery said.
“Oh yeah? I like the campus. Has a good feel. Anyway, I figure Jason will come along. You’ll like him, he writes poetry.”
“Oh, I see.”
“Hey, you wanna feel old all of a sudden?”
“No. But go ahead and try it; I was old at twenty-five.”
“I watched All the System when it aired that first time, and I was sitting on a couch with my kid. He was in high school.”
“Ah, got it. Same kid that now teaches in Santa Rosa.”
“Yeah, but that’s not what’s gonna make you feel old. I got more.”
“Out with it, you snake,” Emery said.
“His son, see. My grandson, Arnold. Just moved out here to stay with Annie and I. My grandson is gonna be in your class next term.”
Emery glanced up at Gary and let his mind fall to numbers. High school in ‘55... had a kid... kid goes off to college in ‘74... The numbers connected in a way that made Emery’s stomach heavy.
“Oh, son of a bitch,” he muttered.
“There you go. Welcome to the old folks home, Asher.”
“Christ. His name’s Arnold Bond, then?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, next term I’ll be sure to destroy him.”
“I approve. It’ll be good for him. He’s a bit of a stoner.”
There was a brief pass of time wherein the geology instructor sighed before he let his smile surface.
“Okay, I can’t help it. Yes. There’s something to do with sediment at the lake. But there’s another big reason the fishing is good at my secret spot. One somebody like you might even be able to grasp.”
“Beyond the wonderful sediment?”
“Yeah: No other fishermen; it’s secret, remember?”
With a lesser appetite, lunch in solitude was not a good enough reason to stay out, so Emery drove home after leaving the campus. A day off was supposed to be a day in which one might catch up on the internal life, and do so in the most usual means. In this function, Emery had other people to which he belonged. The week of finals would begin Monday, and he would be administering his exam on that first day. Having caught up and situated himself at the academic term’s end, he could afford to relax for the remainder of the weekend.
The mail had come, and after pouring himself a glass of juice, he lit a cigarette, settled an ashtray on his lap on the couch, and proceeded to read the letters. William was doing well, according to his scrawled handwriting and overuse of the word ‘cultivating’. Both brothers, no doubt having gained only the most eager of traits from their father, owned a preference for keeping busy and viewed slothfulness with a particular sort of odium. This of course had stemmed from the always-in-motion habits of Henry Asher, but unlike their father, they would have time to retire and live a more relaxed life for a time. Henry had died at a mere forty-eight years of age. First William, and then Emery, had outlived the man. This was a strange thing one never quite thought about at the front of consciousness. The notions this idea brought forward came from a deeper, less tangible place.
The difference in retirement would be in Emery’s attempt to continue teaching as long as he could, while William was banking on a full retirement on every level. He worked hard, and would for the next eight years, at which time he would cut himself off from his career at the root. What did he want to do after this sharp change of life? Write a book. Emery had aspirations of doing the same, at some point, and a part of him wondered if he might offer to do so with his brother, that they might write a book together. This could be a good way to get back into regular interaction with William, an interplay that had, over the previous decade, waned into the occasional telephone call or letter, two or three times a year. Of course, William might dislike the idea of writing with Emery. They were still siblings, after all, and both were writers, and any similarities they shared only seldom outweighed the vicissitudes of their differing approaches and wants.
The younger brother snuffed out his cigarette, thought of having another, and put it off a spell while he opened the letter that had drawn his attention most. It had a return address stamped with a logo for a production company, which meant business. Emery had, in the few previous years, formed the habit of saving business mail for last. He opened the letter and read, a sense of nuisance running through him.
Bule Rowe, the producer who had, 15 years back, replaced Sol Jamison on The Other Side during the third season, had his own production company now. It was a small one similar to Fairway Productions, which Bernie Dozier had run for several years. This new company, simply called Rowe Productions, had shot a pilot for a show now consigned to a season, but the head writer had recently quit, leaving Rowe in a strict bind. He was contacting Emery to offer the job. It could be accomplished long distance, through mail and over the telephone, and would require only 30% of the scripts to air. Creative control belonged to Emery, if he wanted it. There was a moment through which Emery smiled a broad, internal arc through his body and mind, a moment that ended slowly but with certainty. He was done with television, no matter how racy a deal came his way. He had spent a good portion of his life building within that sort of work, developing the skill and eagerness necessary to move within and beyond it. He had honed the smarts to innovate it or simply capture it for short durations. These traits and integrations had not been enough. Emery had learned a staunch facet of himself in reckoning television and its production: He had never, in all the years of success and failure, through all the stories, themes, conceits, and the busy, second-by-second motions of writing for the public, developed the stomach for it.
Emery sighed when he reached the last paragraph, reading over the name of the head writer who had abandoned the show Rowe was offering: Calvin Moffat. Emery shook his head. He could not pretend to understand Calvin’s reason for leaving a show so early on, but Emery deferred to trust. If Moffat found something so wrong with a production that he might leave it so quickly, after obviously pitching it, gaining creative control, and securing a deal with Bule Rowe in the first place, there had to be a sound motive. Calvin had declined to write for The After Hours because he could read between lines expertly, and could detect that particular whirlwind of shit the industry often fostered, and he could do so with a practiced sort of sixth sense. Emery possessed a lesser degree of this skill, but it was a sense strong enough that it had made his levels of hell on that show all the worse. He understood the intricacies of that snare The After Hours had once snapped around his foot. Emery made up his mind to find Calvin’s new telephone number and give the writer a call, get the story and learn what happened, out of fun and friendship. There was no chance that Emery would concede to accepting Rowe’s offer, however. A single episode, possibly (depending on what Calvin thought), but an entire show?
CUT TO:
HOST ASHER, in his Other Side suit and with his slicked-back hair, is standing a stage, a few feet from a small, clear, glass podium. He’s holding a microphone. We also see a Bachelor, CALVIN MOFFAT, standing near him. CALVIN is holding an index card. We CUT TO a larger shot, indicating that we’re seeing a brightly lit game show, the sort filmed live with an audience. We do not see the audience, however. A happy little jingle plays. We’ve just come back from commercial.
HOST ASHER:
Welcome back to The Television Game. We’re nearing our final round. Standing near me is Calvin from Los Angeles, and he has a decision to make. We’ve been waiting for this moment. Now, Calvin, you’ve questioned your three, prospective dates and they’ve had some intriguing answers. It’s come down to this. Are you ready?
CALVIN:
Yes, I’m ready.
HOST ASHER:
Then let’s get to it! Final round, and it’s all you.
We CUT TO a wide shot that shows the entirety of the stage. CALVIN is situated in a bright, open portion of the stage, which runs far left to center. He’s standing beside HOST ASHER. While ASHER has a podium, CALVIN does not, and simply stands there, appearing nervous but excited. From center to far right are three partitions, each containing a wall-to-wall bench with a producer sitting behind it, each facing the live audience. The design is to allow the audience to see all the people on stage, while HOST ASHER and CALVIN, the contestant, cannot see the producers in the partitions.
CALVIN glances at his index card.
CALVIN:
(Feigning cheer)
Uh, Producer #1, you said that your favorite thing about dealing with writers was, and I quote, “seeing a guy with his dick so far into his own mouth that he can’t even see who’s fucking him.”
The audience laughs at this. We CUT for a moment to Producer #1, FRANK GILL.
GILL:
What can I say, I guess I like it dirty when we get there.
The audience gives a staple “woo!” and a few hoots at the raciness of this first Producer.
GILL:
But at any other time, mind you, I expect you to be docile. You’ll be a good little housewife, understand?
CALVIN:
Would you say you know how to run a show?
GILL:
Yeah yeah, feed the cow, eat the meat.
CALVIN:
Producer #2, your answers didn’t do much for me, and while you had some potent things to say, you never really answered any of my questions outright. If ‘absence makes the heart grow fonder’, how fond am I going to be?
We see Producer #2, BULE ROWE, rolls his eyes.
ROWE:
Christ, who gives a shit?
CALVIN:
Would you say you know how to run a show?
ROWE:
I’ve been with some of the best shows out there. Just don’t forget my golden rule: I put out once she’s worth it. Never before.
Audience murmurs a little. ROWE has not gained their favor much.
CALVIN:
Producer #3, you seemed to go back and forth between calling yourself things like “an engine of being”, and then self-deprecating yourself with words like “street-sweeper of Smalltown”. You consider yourself a recognized genius, yet also a grub street worker. I’m still puzzled about it. Can you clarify any of that for me?
Producer #3, ED BAIRD, his statements seeming to alternate between cockiness and awkwardness, speaks into the microphone. He has a small bag of chips in his free hand.
BAIRD:
Well, there’s nothing I can’t handle, and that means you, too. I think real writers are above everyone else; I know that because I respect real writers, and I study them, because I’m a real writer. I try hard, but it’s actually pretty easy. You all talk about integrity and compromise but that’s all amateur stuff. I fix the work of writers because I can, and sometimes I fix the hell out of it. I’m a literary janitor.
See, you bum me out, because you’re supposed to be writing for your employers, not the unknown. The ones that sign your paycheck are the actual audience, and they know how talented I am. Talent is when can do what you’re supposed to better than the next guy over. It’s like you don’t care about what you do. But I DO care, and so do they, and I work at all hours but...
(pauses to eat from the bag of chips)
...listen, old-timer, if you want me to come over to your house so you can cook me dinner, great. But I won’t eat it. The only cooking I eat is my own, and I’m sure you wouldn’t understand my tastes anyway because I’ve spent a lot of time practicing what they should be, unlike you.
Audience is quiet here, a little confused. We hear a solitary clap and then nothing. CUT back to CALVIN:
CALVIN:
(sighs)
Would you say that you know how to run a show?
BAIRD:
There’s no such thing as a show, so definitely not. But there ARE people who make things for other people, and that divinity has rules, so then again, absolutely yes, you hack.
HOST ASHER:
Okay, Bachelor. It’s time for you to make your decision and pick your producer. Do you choose Producer #1, Producer #2, or Producer #3?
CALVIN:
Can’t I make a production company and just produce my own stories?
We hear much laughter from audience. HOST ASHER smirks.
HOST ASHER:
Not and still write them. We’re almost out of time, Calvin. You have to make your choice now.
CALVIN:
Well, I don’t want any of them. These Networks are wrathful. And all their generals have no care for me. I’m not picking one.
HOST ASHER:
Then you’d be forfeiting the grand prize.
CALVIN:
Fine. I don’t want it. Your contestants are always a nightmare and your other bachelors spend their integrity like money in a grocery. Gore Vidal was right to get the fuck out of this game. Honestly, I think it’s rigged for the ratings. I’m done with this show. I’ll write books, instead. Occasional movies. A little freelance.
All three producers start laughing a little.
HOST ASHER:
Ah, good luck with that, Bachelor. We’ll be watching. But not really.
The exit jingle begins and some multi-colored spotlights begin moving about quickly on the stage. It is energetic music.
HOST ASHER:
That’s all the time we have this week. Thanks for playing, Calvin of Los Angeles.
(to audience, exuberant)
And thank YOU for tuning in to The Television Game!
The exit jingle rises in volume and we cut to several shots of the audience and various members of it, game show style. The audience is entirely comprised of humanoid insects and apes evolved from men. The quickly rolling credits are overlayed atop these cuts and scene. We see antennas flitting, mandibles chatting, and ape-men hooting as they wave their arms and fists in gestures of excitement. Several ape-men beat their chests, and we see a large spider sitting in one of the seats, its abdomen bent upward from the chair’s position, shooting strands of silk all over itself in ecstacy.
CUT TO:
The workings of the machine. The mannerisms of contract. Television and an offer for creative control on a sinking show that had been abandoned by its own creator. This show had been shoved away by a man Emery considered a grand, longstanding cohort. Despite its better intentions, the letter had struck in him a good sense of balance, reinforcing the decisions he had made over the past several years. He knew where he was in life now. He felt steady and secure, no longer affected by the macerating, nerve-leeching velocity of the industry he had left behind. He was so thankful to be past the bestial obligations that cropped up with such ease there, the things that came for a man and punished him. That world was spiced with minor devils who only praised you to kick you. Emery would have rather made love to himself with sandpaper than take the reigns of the show being offered.
Another cigarette reached his lips an
d he lit with his free hand, setting the letter aside on the arm of the couch. He had an inhale and thought about the stubborn nature of resolve. People wedged themselves into various nooks and corners, trying to own those places, to set up a life in them and hold on to those properties as long as possible. Occasionally, if one was lucky, those nooks and corners might return the gesture, attempting to hold on to that rare individual who pleased them. Emery was a writer and an instructor. He had decided at the outset of his joining with the university that only one of these institutions in his life would have the luxury of calling him a staff member. His nook was fulfilled. His corner was open and had granted him a long view back. Part of changing one’s life involved a release of things past, and this letter was the past come to dance awkwardly before him. To show him just how right he had been in retiring from television. He had gotten his smile out of the letter, and now it was time to set it aside and get to cooking dinner.
Emery wrote much, between classes and on most of his days off, usually in the late hours. He could not stop doing this any more than a wheel could stop rolling on a steep hill. There was simply too much momentum, and not writing felt like aberration. He had made some effort in writing less, considering his now but mild interest in publication and production, but going more than a few days without getting into his typewriter only gave him a sense of disorder. He had become, over the years, dependant on a specific state of learning, and without being in that state, he felt unnecessary. These stories were given exacting tasks, and he was using them to hone his craft, a knowledgeable sorting of the bulk talent he had utilized in previous years, and he had a familiarity with his writing that was stronger than it had ever been. In his mind, he had begun putting himself through his own class, really, as a student again. Most of these things were not to see the light of day, and certainly not designed for industry.