Rush went back to work in a huff.
John turned back to his computer and scrolled through the script. News. Newsworthy. John was starting to feel sour about this, as unprofessional as that was.
If only we could’ve gotten some shots of the pipe rack falling, or Chuck’s bleeding hands, or the blood stains on the floor . . . If only there’d been a camera right there in the clinic when Annie—
John stopped himself. Come on, John. Ease up. Let it go.
CARL WORKED THAT afternoon on his portrait of John Barrett, but found the task agonizing, unreachable. The face lacked expression. It seemed cadaverous.
He checked the clock. Almost 5. There would be a promo coming up, a whole twenty-five seconds worth. He didn’t know why he even bothered, but he clicked on the television set and waited, pencil in hand. Maybe something would come across that would reach his soul, a glint of warmth, of humanity, of . . . whatever.
As he waited, his eyes drifted to that pile of unassembled parts, Grandpa’s and his father’s boat, still resting and waiting under the cloth. He went over to take another look, to fold back the cloth and touch the wood. He felt sorrow for Grandpa.
A voice came from the television. “Hello, this is John Barrett in the NewsSix newsroom. Coming up in one half hour on NewsSix at Five Thirty . . .”
Carl dashed to his easel, compared the television eyes with the penciled eyes. They were—
What was this? Some old geezer shooting people? “. . . we’ll have a shocking report of a protester opening fire on several bystanders and police . . .”
Carl stood there, watching the gun go off, watching people scurry for cover.
“. . . and a woman dies at the zoo, apparently of a heart attack.”
There was John Barrett again, in shirtsleeves, the newsroom behind him. “All this and other top news of the day, one half hour from now, on NewsSix at Five Thirty.”
Commercial.
Carl turned the television off, stared at the blank screen, and cursed.
JOHN SET DOWN the camera remote control, got off the flashcam stool, and cursed.
TINA LEWIS, IN her office with the door closed, spoke quietly into her telephone. “I have talked with John Barrett. He says there are no developments in his father’s death at this time. No . . . he said nothing about any police investigation. Yes, I’ll let you know.”
She hung up and went back to work.
Martin Devin hung up the phone and went down the hall to the governor’s office. Miss Rhodes, the governor’s secretary, announced him and waved him in.
Wilma Benthoff, the hardworking campaign manager, was already there for the meeting and had laid out some new billboard designs on the governor’s desk.
“So how goes the battle?” Devin asked.
The governor was pleased. “We are whipping Wilson’s butt, that’s how it’s going! Take a look at these!”
Devin came around to the governor’s side of the desk to view the new artwork. The photographs and graphics were lofty, eye-catching, even transcendent, and made Hiram Slater bigger than life, no question.
Wilma Benthoff reported, “The early analysis finds more people identify Hiram Slater with the issues that concern them than they do Bob Wilson, especially in the areas of civil rights and environment.”
Devin laughed. “Well, what else did we expect? When you control the images, you control the high ground. Too bad we can’t carve the governor’s face in the side of Mount Blanchard.”
Benthoff was delighted to report, “Well, maybe we have. Look at this poster.”
Hmm. There was Mount Blanchard, and if you looked a second time, you could see the governor’s face cleverly hidden in the rocks, glaciers, and crevasses. The lettering below the scene read, “Slater = Environment.”
Devin moaned in mock disappointment. “Aww, and I thought I had a brand-new ideal!”
Wilma pulled out some photo proofs. “So now, to get stronger on the family values side of things . . .”
Devin received the proofs from Wilma’s hand. Family portraits. The governor with his silver-haired wife, Ashley, and their two remaining children, Hayley and Hyatt. “Well, if that doesn’t look like the typical All-American family!”
Slater’s smile was a little crooked. “Beaver Cleaver’s family, if you ask me! Hayley never dresses that way—and look at Hyatt! His hair’s combed! You can’t even recognize him!”
Wilma gave the governor’s hand a mock slap. “Now, now! You all look charming! It’ll sell, believe me!”
“Well, at least we look happy for once . . .” He shook his head. “Sometimes it’s like pulling teeth, but they do it for me.”
“Image is everything, Mr. Governor,” Devin reminded him.
“Image is everything,” the governor admitted, leaning back in his chair and switching to thoughts about success. “The polls are favorable. We’ve gone up fifteen percentage points since we started our ad campaign, so don’t tell me people don’t learn by watching TV!”
Devin chuckled. “Don’t worry, sir, I won’t.”
The governor looked at Benthoff. “So, let’s hear the latest on the rally over in Sperry.”
Benthoff handed some copied reports to the governor and Devin. “They’re ready for you, sir, in two weeks. I think you’ll have a full house, and of course the press will be there. We have a press conference set up afterward, and I’ve gotten confirmations from a local station in Sperry, plus the four big news stations from over here. I’m flying to Sperry tomorrow to do some advance work among the businessmen. The local organizers aren’t pulling enough support from them.”
The governor nodded, scowling. “Yeah, kick their butts, will you? The eastern half of this state isn’t a different world, no matter what they say, and I’m still their governor and they need to be rowing this boat with the rest of us.” The governor quickly scanned the letter from Sperry, his flight schedule, and the attendance projections. “Well, at least there won’t be any mad prophets over there.”
Hiram Slater shuffled through the papers on his desk. “Well, it’s after 5. I’m about to call it a day.” Then he stopped and considered, “But isn’t it interesting how we never knew about the prophet’s death until now, even with the media connection in the family . . .”
“No one else did either. I imagine most people in this state don’t . . . and never will.”
“Well, that’s nice. We want the people to be thinking about me and only me, right?”
“That’s my concern,” said Benthoff.
“So I’m glad my little messenger from God hasn’t gotten any more attention than he has.”
Devin looked away for a moment. “So am I, sir. So am I.”
CARL HAD DINNER with Mom Barrett right after the Five Thirty News and was back out in Dad Barrett’s shop in time to catch the Seven O’clock. Now he attacked that canvas, that portrait, with a growing anger. Where was that man anyway? Who was he?
The face on the canvas was lifeless. It was perfect, it was impressive, it was strong . . . but it was lifeless, as lifeless as that gray screen when the television was turned off.
So what did I expect? Carl thought. I’m not looking at my father—I’m looking at a machine. Well, my father isn’t looking at me either. There’s a machine between us, always there. Even when we sit in the same room, at the same table together, it’s there. He talks to me just like he talks to that camera. His words come from a teleprompter in his head. My father is television. Yeah, a machine who expresses love on cue cards, caring in TV scripts, compassion—or lack of it—in policies and excuses.
Carl had a ticket to a rock concert that night, and by now he was ready for it. He was ready to go out and rock himself silly. Maybe by tomorrow, when he came in for a landing, things would look different. Perhaps something would finally connect.
He cleaned up his brushes, turned out the lights, and got out of there.
On not much more than a whim, John drove to a large shopping mall on the north end of t
own and started walking aimlessly past the storefronts, looking at clothes, gifts, clocks, toys, cameras, anything to get his mind off . . . well, things. Dad. Annie Brewer. The job. News and newsworthiness. What was it Leslie Albright called it? A shark or a whale, or something like that, a big beast that swallowed everybody without their really knowing it and then just swam away with them inside, wherever it wanted.
Well, he figured, before I get swept away with all this, a change of scenery might help to get everything back in perspective. You brood on stuff like this too long, everything starts looking bad.
He passed a computer store. Yeah, he was into computers. Maybe he could find an interesting innovation, some new software, a new toy. He went inside, past the displays of desktop and laptop models with their VGA screens flashing colorful demos, all seeming to call to him, “Buy me! Buy me!” He loved this stuff. Say, here were some new notebook-size computers.
“Hello,” said a salesman, “can I help you?”
“Well, sure. I’d like to check out these notebook computers here.”
Something about this salesman looked so familiar. He stood there rather still, wearing a dress shirt and tie, with computer monitors flickering and people going about their business in the background, and it just looked like he was—
“Hi, this is Tim Miller in the Tyde Brothers Computer Showroom. Coming up this week in Tyde Brothers’ Incoming Tyde Sale, a startling development in notebook computing as the Martin-Androve 486 weighs in at only 4.4 pounds. Also this week, the controversial Bookkeeper II system is trying for a comeback, but will it make it? We’ll see what the customers have to say.” A telephone warbled. “More after this.” Reporting live from the newsroom . . .
The salesman picked up the phone and engaged in a brisk, copy-perfect conversation. “Well, in this age of rapidly changing computer technology it’s no surprise to find that some people are having trouble keeping up with it. Our software specialist Hank Baxter has been looking into a new program that promises to help those of us who can’t tell a bit from a byte.” He handed the phone to another man. “Hank?”
Hank took the phone and spoke in a resonant voice. “Tim, its makers claim it’s the software of the decade, and though critics said it wouldn’t succeed, Dumbyte, the DOS Tutorial for Idiots, has virtually sold itself . . .”
John expected a cassette to roll at this cue, but thankfully nothing happened. He slipped quickly and quietly out of the store. What have we done to these people? he wondered.
CARL HAD GROWN up in LA. He was used to crowds. But for some reason, as he was swept along by the river of people flowing into the large arena, he was bothered, almost frightened. I couldn’t turn around if I wanted to, he thought. I couldn’t get out of here.
JOHN WAS HAVING trouble staying in one place for very long. He tried to look at some jackets in a leather store, but couldn’t stay long enough to try them on. He thought he might check out some pens in a stationery store, but there were too many; he’d never be able to see them all. He had to keep moving.
He came to a camera store. Sure . . . He enjoyed photography and had a pretty good camera himself. He stepped inside, not knowing what he’d find. Even as he went in, he had a feeling he’d better find it fast.
Here was a nice, lightweight video camera standing on a tripod. The prices on these things were coming down slowly but surely. Pretty soon every home would have one of these.
“Hi,” said the salesman. “Pretty nice camera, huh?”
“Sure,” said John. “What can you tell me about it?”
The salesman suddenly pointed in John’s face. “Hey! John Barrett? NewsSix?”
John smiled kindly. “Yeah, that’s right.”
The salesman turned to the older guy behind the counter. “Hey, look who’s here!”
The older guy looked and asked, “Who?”
The salesman just waved him off. “Never mind. Hey, John, a lot of your news footage comes from little jewels like this one, huh? Home video. It’s a whole new wave, right?”
The salesman started showing John the features on the camera: the zoom lens, the automatic white balance, the high-speed shutter, the backlight feature, the calendar and clock, the battery pack, the AC adapter socket, the remote cable attachment, the . . . He was taking too long . . . One-button review, the leather carrying case, the ninety-day warranty, the . . .
John thought he saw a woman behind the camera counting down with her fingers. Five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . .
John interrupted the salesman. “Well, in the few seconds we have left . . .”
“Hey,” said the salesman, “I’ve got ’til 9, no problem.”
John caught himself. “Oh . . . sorry.”
CARL HAD A ticket with a number on it, so he knew he was entitled to that one seat with the same number, but he also knew he would probably never sit in it.
He was right. When the lights in the arena went down, everybody in the place stood up and stayed that way, bellowing and shrieking as one huge hysterical organism, blasting out a sound shock so loud it made your cheeks buzz.
Carl was on his feet too, hollering and breaking loose, waving his arms, cheering, just venting everything. He was among friends, thousands of them.
The band came onstage in the dark, groping through thick stage fog. The anticipation of the crowd was like an electric charge.
Lights. A flurry of brilliant shafts waved and groped through the fog—red, blue, pink, purple, gold. Five musicians, like ragged wraiths from the sixties, seemed suspended in boiling clouds.
Then came the sound. The sound. The crowd gave itself to the sound. It pounded through their chests, grabbed them by their guts, clutched their hearts, cut into their minds. It led, they followed; it soared, they flew; it crashed, they cried; it thundered, they roared; it leaped, they danced.
It took them it took them it grabbed them and took them it ripped them and it tore and it pounded and took them the drums and the lights and the cry of the strings and the smoke and the sweat and the volley of screams took them on. And on. And on. And on.
And Carl was dancing—but suddenly found himself asking a question he never had asked before, a question he never had even thought of before. Where are we going? Where are you taking us?
He stopped dancing. He looked all around—at the sea of arms, faces, and rumbling, quaking bodies. He clapped his hands to the beat, but soon that stopped too. He couldn’t shake the question from his mind.
Where are we going? Where are you taking us?
JOHN TRIED NOT to hurry through the mall. There was no need to hurry. Good grief, he’d been hurrying all day long; all he really wanted to do was slow down, take it easy. Finally he stopped and got an orange drink, then sat on a bench just to hold still, sip the drink, and watch the people.
Shopping malls are great for people-watching. Here you can see all kinds: ladies shopping in twos and threes, taking their time; a few husbands tagging along and wishing they weren’t; moms with kids in strollers; kids with treats; kids fighting over treats; and always—always—a kid screaming bloody murder because he sees something his parents won’t let him have.
Then there were the older kids, the teenagers, both junior and senior high schoolers, walking fast and talking fast, sipping, chewing, munching, teasing, flitting from one store to another like hummingbirds after pollen.
Hm. And they all looked the same, as if they all lived in the same big family, sharing and handing down all the clothes, as if they all lived . . . well, in this mall, and every store in the place was their closet. The same styles kept going by him—styles in pants, dresses, jewelry, hair. And then John noticed something else. Had he started counting the rock, television, and movie stars, not to mention cartoon characters, radio station call letters, and movie titles, that passed by on a T-shirt or on a jacket or on shoes or purses or folders or shoelaces or in the form of a toy or painted on a toy just to sell the toy, he could have counted steadily until the place closed. It was an od
d feeling, like having hundreds of billboards driving past him instead of the other way around. Somebody was making a lot of money from all this stuff.
Or fluff. Yeah, fluff. At the station they had their own version of it, and that’s what they called it. This was, of course, the light feature material, the human interest stuff, the “dispensable news,” the show biz. It wasn’t necessary, nobody’s life would be measurably changed by it, it rarely had anything significant to do with anything else, it wasn’t harmful as far as anyone knew—it was just . . . fluff.
In a sense he was watching fluff walk by. It all took time to watch on television, it all took money to consume, it all demanded a significant niche in the culture, but none of it really mattered. As a matter of fact, very little of it was even real.
But they were buying it, wearing it, eating it, screaming for it, identifying with it; it was so important to them. The place was saturated with it.
I could tell them anything, John mused. Hey, I know the media. Give me graphics, music, tight editing, maybe a TV star, and I could tell them . . . He laughed. He was getting silly. I could tell them the color brown gets moldy when it rains—I could ruin the sellers of brown!
“Aaaw!” came a shriek behind him. He looked over his shoulder to see a young girl dressed like a rock star confronting a friend who happened to be wearing brown.
“You didn’t buy brown!” she cried, incredulous. “Brown gets moldy when it rains—everybody knows that!”
Just then three high school jocks came marching by, harassing a smaller kid in front of them, pointing at his brown shoes and chanting, “Mold—ee! Mold—ee! Mold—ee!”
John wasn’t shocked or even alarmed. It was happening again! He surrendered to it. He leaned back on the bench and just had a good laugh. It was a great show. He was going to enjoy it.
THE SOUND CARRIED the crowd onward as one tribe, one voice, one spirit. The young men rocked with the rhythm and pounded the air with defiant fists. The young women swayed as if in a trance, their arms reaching heavenward. The priests on the stage cavorted and blasphemed.
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