Madame de Gaulle's Penis

by Herbie Brennan

  “Nice bones!” she remarked enthusiastically as she studied my head from various angles.

  “Thanks,” I said. Lauren, I noticed, was seated in a nearby chair hugging her clipboard. She appeared to have fallen asleep.

  “Not much we need to do with you, John,” Avril told me grinning. “You’re a natural for television.”

  “Am I?”

  “Sure. Just a little powder to keep down the shine. And that shirt will have to go.”

  “What’s wrong with this shirt?” I’d bought it specially for the occasion.

  “White flares on camera. I’ll send down to wardrobe to get you something trendy in blue.” She picked up a power puff. “Your hair’s starting to recede. That’s good.”

  “It is?” I asked, genuinely taken aback. “I thought it made me look old.”

  “Naw,” Avril chewed, “just distinguished. A guy on television looks too young, nobody takes him serious. Ya nervous?”

  “A little.” It was the understatement of the century.

  “Don’t be. You’ll be great.” She powered my receding hairline.

  “I just wish I knew what he’ll be asking me.”

  “Haven’t they told you?”

  “No. I asked Lauren, but she said she wasn’t allowed.”

  “I expect it’ll be sex,” Avril said. “He’s asking everybody about sex these days.”

  As the make-up session finished, Lauren’s head jerked up. The smile was still there, still tired, permanently in place even during sleep. “So glad you could make it, ” she murmured. “Mr Carson’s in Make Up, but he asked me to tell you how much, how very much, he’s looking forward to meeting you. And he’s specifically instructed me to look after you until it’s time for your spot.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  I felt self-conscious as she led me to Hospitality. Despite Avril’s reassurances, I’d ended up getting the full treatment including eye-liner and stuff I assumed was greasepaint. By the time she’d finished, the face in the mirror was that of an ageing queen, but she assured me I’d look different on screen. I was not at all convinced as I trailed despondently after the exhausted Lauren. The effect, for someone who wasn’t used to it - and nobody uses make-up for radio, of course - was rather like wearing a mask, so that you stare out at the world in a curiously disconnected fashion. I supposed everybody else on the show, including Johnny, would be masked in the same way, but that didn’t make it any better.

  The Hospitality Suite was as large and as sumptuous as everywhere else in this temple to commercial Mammon. There was a fully-stocked bar, complete with uniformed barman, at one end of a room the size of a tennis court. There were deep leather armchairs, couches, coffee tables, book-cases and a bizarre mixture of wood-panelling, glass and stainless steel. The only similarity to the BBC Hospitality Room, a chamber of horrors with which I was only too depressingly familiar, was the green and tan flecked carpet, a colour chosen because it doesn’t show obvious stains if a guest pukes on it.

  There was a buzz of high-pitched, nervous conversation right across the room from an eclectic mixture of people whom I took to be my fellow guests. One of them had bright green hair.

  “No monitor?” I asked. Both the BBC and the Independent studios in Britain installed television monitors in their Hospitality Rooms as a matter of course. That way, guests could watch other people making fools of themselves right up to the point where they were dragged on to do the same.

  “Over there,” Lauren said, pointing. At first I couldn’t see it. Then with a rush of what Alvin Toffler was to call future shock I realised the whole wall panel was a monitor. It was switched off at the moment, but even if it had been switched on I doubt I’d have realised what I was looking at. BBC monitors were minuscule - the sort of size you associate with ATMs nowadays. “We leave it off until the show actually starts.” The tired smile again. “Now, can I get you a coffee? Or would you prefer tea? The English always drink tea, don’t they?”

  I’d had American tea, the only fluid on the planet that can actually taste bone dry and dusty. “Coffee will be fine,” I said. I would have preferred a stiff belt of burbon, but I knew the form. Whether in America or Britain, TV guests were offered only soft drinks until about ten minutes before they were due to go on. Then their hosts would wake up suddenly to the duties of adult hospitality and offer liquor. The idea was that well-timed alcohol left people relaxed and talkative. If you administered spirits too early, you ran the risk of them walking on and falling down. The stiff belt would have to wait.

  As Lauren went off to fetch the coffee, I watched another P. A. minder usher in another guest. “So glad you could make it, ” she was saying. “Mr Carson’s in Make Up, but he asked me to tell you how much, how very much, he’s looking forward to meeting you. And he’s specifically instructed me to look after you until it’s time for your spot.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I kept myself to myself despite Lauren’s several attempts to engage me in conversation with fellow guests. A part of me suspected I was still in fairly deep trouble so that my instinct was to maintain a low profile. It was a fairly lunatic instinct, given that I was about to go on national television under my own name - and in one of the most popular shows on the airwaves - but it was my instinct and I was stuck with it.

  As Lauren promised, the monstrous wall monitor flashed briefly, then sprang to life in time to fill the room with what I took to be the Johnny Carson signature tune, but actually turned out to be the latest jingle for Dr Pepper. But the commercials finished eventually and I found myself watching a man with the build of a wrestler (and the voice of a referee) announce, “Ladeeeees and gennelmen, heeeeeeeeeeeeeer’s.... Johnny!!!”

  “Do you think I might have a burbon?” I asked Lauren in my best British accent.

  One of my fellow guests, a female academic with blue rinsed hair, twittered, “Oh, I do love that Ed McMahon. Honest to Godfrey, Johnny Carson would be nothing without him.” She was widely ignored. Everybody in the room seemed to be hypnotised by the screen.

  Lauren was locked into immobility as she considered my request. I could understand her problem. I was obviously outside my ten-minute time-limit, but as against that I might well be the sort who would make a fuss if refused, despite the British accent. I waited patiently, not much bothered which way her decision went. Eventually she said, “Yes, of course.” I suspect her tiredness simply got the better of her.

  I’ve noticed that while it’s difficult to persuade Americans to cave in about anything, when they do cave in they tend to cave in completely. Thus it was no surprise to find that the burbon Lauren handed me was a triple, diluted with nothing more substantial than ice. I sipped it gratefully, feeling liquid warmth trickle into that body area the Japanese call the hara, then spread out to induce a profound sensation of well-being and relaxation. In less than five minutes, my reservations about appearing on the show had disappeared. I was destined to be a sensation. I would talk memorably with wit on any subject Johnny Carson cared to introduce.

  At the moment, on the huge screen, Johnny was introducing a young man with long blond hair and a karate headband who argued that the Hippie Movement was neither defunct nor in decline, but merely regrouping for its final assault on the Military-Industrial Complex. Believe it or not, this was the first time I’d heard the term Military-Industrial Complex and I was suitably impressed. Rather more so than with the young man who seemed wholly irrational. But then I drank more burbon and thought who was I to talk?

  A red phone rang on one of the coffee tables and Lauren hurried to answer it. It was a one-sided conversation for she said nothing more than “Yes.” But when she hung up, she came over to tell me quietly, “They’ve moved you up a slot. You’re on after the next commercials.” She eyed my empty glass, seemed about to offer a refill, then clearly decided against it.

 
“Any chance of another?” I asked promptly.

  She gave me her old familiar exhausted smile. “I’m afraid they don’t allow - “ She stopped. “Oh, what the hell - you’re going to need it.”

  The barman was actually called Leroy, a name I’d firmly believed to be a Hollywood fiction. When Lauren gave him the nod, he slid the open bottle along the counter the way they do in Western movies. I caught it inexpertly, but at least none spilled, and helped myself to a generous libation. “Dulls the pain,” said Leroy, grinning.

  It became a bit fuddled immediately after that. The next thing I remember clearly was being introduced to somebody called Doc Severensen who assured me Johnny was in ‘great form’ and I was going to have a ‘wonderful time’. I would be, he insisted, ‘great - just great!” Then I was walking into the studio to a burst of applause that would have been overblown if I’d changed into Jane Fonda.

  I couldn’t see the studio audience. For some reason they’d lowered the house lights like a live theatre and put a spot on the chair where I was supposed to sit. I could hardly even see Johnny, who was installed behind a sort of desk, the way David Letterman sits today. A second spot picked me up and guided me to the seat. As it did so, the applause actually increased, intermixed with laughter. I suspect that if the burbon hadn’t dulled my critical faculties, I’d have been asking questions by that stage.

  But as it was, Johnny Carson was walking round his desk, his hand outstretched, a broad grin on his face. “Here he is, Ladies and Gentlemen - the lucky guy I’ve been telling you about. Hands up all you fellas out there who envy him?”

  Envy? What on earth had Martha told him about me? But he was making a big play of squinting into the darkened studio, something which the audience found hilarious. Johnny waved his hand in mock exasperation. “Aw, what the heck, I can’t see a thing in here!” More laughter, rising to the sort of crescendo I associated with the Phil Silvers Show. “Hey, Ed,” Johnny called to someone in the gloom beyond the cameras, “Can’t you do something about the lights?” More merriment, but then he was shaking my hand and smiling like a benign uncle and saying, “Really nice to meet you, John. Take a seat, take a seat. We’re dying to hear you tell us all about it.”

  I sat to a mixture of laughter and renewed applause. The burbon had died abruptly and I was wondering what the hell was going on.

  “John,” Johnny said, “let’s take this from the beginning. You’re English, of course.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’ve been in America... how long?”

  My mind went a blank. It was a simple enough question, but I couldn’t remember the answer. It seemed like forever. “Couple of weeks,” I muttered, hoping it might be near enough.

  It seemed to satisfy Johnny Carson who’d obviously only asked it to lead into something else. He was grinning broadly now. “And, John... John, I want you to be really frank and open -” He seemed to be having trouble with his breathing. “I mean, we can take it over here. So tell us, as an Englishman, have you seen any interesting sights since you came over?”

  For some reason it brought the house down and I had to wait until the audience settled before I answered. Eventually I said, “Well, I haven’t got round to looking at the Grand Canyon yet -”

  That brought the house down as well, so much so I had to stop and wait. There was somebody out there in the darkness who sounded as if he was having a heart attack and several women were braying like donkeys. When it wound down, I finished my sentence, “ - but there are some beautiful things in Washington and even here in New -” They wouldn’t let me finish. They were howling with glee. I looked at Johnny in the hope he might let me in on the joke, but he seemed to be having trouble controlling himself as well. I felt myself frown and saw the camera lens rotate for a close-up.

  “John -” Johnny said, then stopped. “John -” he tried again. He stood up and it was clear he was having trouble controlling his laughter. “John, I’m sorry. I guess we should let you in on the joke.”

  “I should be delighted if you would,” I told him in my best English accent and that sent the audience off again.

  “Will we tell him?” Johnny asked.

  “Yes!” the audience roared.

  “Will we show him?” Johnny asked, milking it.

  “YES!!!” roared the audience even more loudly.

  “Give us some lights here, Ed!” Johnny called.

  I had not the slightest idea what to expect as the lights came up. I swivelled in my chair to look at the audience. And at that exact moment, despite the best efforts of Marian, Martha and Beth, it happened again. I plunged into another of my damn hallucinations. The first three rows of the audience were stark naked.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The applause went on and on, so long in fact that my fuddled mind began to work again. The first thing to strike me was that it wasn’t just the women who were naked - the men were too. That had never happened before. Then there was the fact that only those in the first three rows were divest of clothes. Until now, my hallucinations had never been limited in this way.

  And then, as the applause began to fade, I started to wonder if I really was hallucinating. I don’t know what the difference was, but something in the deepest recesses of my mind kept whispering that this was real. The people in the first three rows were actually not wearing clothes. I looked at Johnny (who was wearing clothes) and the cameramen (who were wearing clothes) and the floor manager, a woman, (who was wearing clothes) and all those dozens of other women in the audience beyond the first three rows (who were, without exception, wearing clothes) and suddenly, like a bolt from the blue, I knew what was happening.

  Johnny Carson was grinning. The cameramen were grinning. The unclothed audience members in the first three rows were grinning. Slowly I began to grin as well. “You’ve stitched me up,” I said into the camera.

  It turned out to be the best move I ever made.

  Johnny apologised afterwards, but it was no more than a polite formality. There was no doubt at all I’d been the highlight of the show and nobody regretted that in the least. I got the whole story in Johnny’s private Hospitality Suite where I was taken because I was a success and success, even silly success, is everything in America.

  It started when Martha told Johnny about my hallucinations. I gather she dressed it up a little because he seemed to have the idea I hallucinated only the most stunning women and the whole thing had been caused by my trip to America.

  Every issue of the Johnny Carson Show was preceded by a brain-storming session to generate ideas about presentation. Apparently I was the subject of much discussion. A man who sees beautiful naked women everywhere has the makings of a class act where ratings are concerned. It was only a matter of time before somebody came up with the obvious angle. Why not show the audience at home what he sees?

  Everything else grew out of that simple question. There were several variations on the theme, ideas involving strippers and artist’s models, that sort of thing, but they were dismissed as tawdry. Eventually somebody suggested a practical joke theme and the meeting took fire. Next thing you know they’d organised party tickets for willing members of the Minnesota Naturist Association - one of the P.A.s had an uncle in it.

  The nudists were hidden away in the bowels of the building while the show got underway. (I was moved up a slot because they were getting cold.) They were moved into the studio during the commercial break. While this was happening, Johnny told the rest of the audience all about me and explained how he was planning a little joke. How would I react to really naked people? Would I think I was hallucinating? Would I actually hallucinate and give them clothes again? I’d had the same sort of thoughts myself as you’ll recall and you can imagine the wind-up. The audience lapped it up. They could hardly wait for me to come on.

  “Weren’t you worried about showing... you know, nake
d people on television?” I asked him curiously. Last year, Hair launched full frontal nudity on stage when play censorship was abolished in London and in August news cameras showed youngsters parading naked (and stoned) at the Woodstock pop festival, but a television chat show was very different. I’d reckoned Johnny Carson would catch up with the permissive Sixties somewhere around 1999.

  “Well, we didn’t actually show them,” Johnny admitted. He shrugged. “Camera angles, you know. A shoulder here... a knee there... we sort of hinted. But the viewers got the message all right.”

  “They certainly did!” exclaimed a booming voice behind me.

  I turned to find myself looking at a tall man who had suit written all over him. He smelled of cologne. His fingernails were manicured. His hair swept back in grey wings above patrician ears. Johnny Carson stood up. Johnny Carson stood up. In that one action I learned I was in the presence of God.

  “Hi, Abe,” Johnny said. If I hadn’t known better I’d have sworn his smile was nervous.

  “Introduce us,” the tall man commanded. He looked at me and displayed a mouthful of teeth that wouldn’t have disgraced little Donny Osmond in his prime.

  “Abe, this is John Sinclair: he was a guest on my show to -”

  “I know who this is, Johnny,” Abe told him without taking his eyes off me. “Now tell him who I am.”

  “John,” Johnny said obediently, “this is Abraham Feldenkranz.” He licked his lips. “The... ah... President of NBC.”

  “Abe,” said the big man, sticking out his hand. “It’s good to meet you, John.”

  The handshake was like a Panzer Division storming into Poland and mercifully just as swift. “Hello, Abe,” I said, wondering if he was here to fire Johnny Carson for allowing lunatics and naked people on his show. Johnny seemed to be wondering much the same thing, to judge from his colour.