Other people

by Sol Stein

  He put the fingers of both hands together as if in contemplation, which gave me a chance to observe his face. I'd guess him to be about fifty. His hair was just slightly longer than World War II. A blow-dry would have looked ridiculous with that oversized bow tie. His face had no distinguishing feature, an okay nose, everything in place, what my mother used to call "nice looking" because there wasn't a single obtrusive feature.

  "It was good of you to come," he said.

  This is my break, my chance, I'd have come if you worked in Alaska, I thought.

  "There are a few questions I would like to ask."

  "Certainly."

  "I take it you have no previous broadcast experience."

  "Not really," I said. Why didn't I have the guts to just say plain no.

  "You did extremely well for a virgin the other night," he said.

  "Thank you."

  "Miss Audrey will be on leave for a month, five weeks actually, and I'm thinking of trying out five guest hosts, all female of course, with an eye to the future."

  Nothing ventured, nothing gained. "I had thought I was being considered as a possible replacement for Miss Audrey."

  "I don't know where you got that. Miss Audrey has a contract with some time to run."

  "I thought there was some dissatisfaction."

  "With her format. It may be correctable. You do realize that if we try you out for a week, you'd have to read commercials as well as do interviews?"

  "Does Miss Audrey?"

  "She did at first."

  "And now?" I asked.

  "She negotiated them out of her contract after her first few years. We think it was a mistake. Our advertisers believe that when the interviewer reads the commercials, it lends strength and authenticity."

  Mr. Straws, I will read commercials standing on my head to get this chance. "I understand," I said.

  "Some of the contenders for our fill-in spots are thinking of trying some variation in the format. I'm giving them a chance to do that. Do you have anything in mind?"

  "In mind?" I sounded like an idiot to me.

  "Formatwise," he said.

  Look, Mr. Straws, I'm just an amateur who wandered into a lucky break. I'll have to wing it. Francine, get a hold of yourself you're onstage.

  "Mr. Straws, I'm kind of an hypocrisy specialist."

  He laughed, thank God. "You practice it?"

  "I study it. Mr. Straws, does a touch of vulgarity offend you?"

  He liked that.

  "Miss Widmer," he said, "in the media one is surrounded by it. A touch wouldn't be noticed."

  "Oh I'm not thinking of a vulgar format, I just want to explain how I see myself."

  He was looking at me all over. I hoped he was also listening.

  "Somewhere along the line," I continued, "I developed a first-class shit detector."

  He flinched at the word.

  "My boss at the U.N.," I quickly continued, "has found it very helpful in his work. Hypocrisy is one of the most widely practiced and least studied phenomena. It's universally employed, not just in diplomacy and business, but even in love affairs. Therefore, a subject of interest to everyone. For instance…" I stopped. Was that me talking? My wings had wings.

  "Go on," he said.

  "Suppose every guest I interviewed was loosened up by being asked to tell us about who they thought was the biggest liar in public life. Two virtues. Everybody is interested in somebody publicly reciting chapter and verse about a liar they know. And if he-she is a public person, I guess we could keep it libel-proof if it weren't malicious."

  "I'm amazed at the way you think," Straws said. "I mean that favorably."

  "Not like a girl."

  "I didn't mean that."

  I looked at him and didn't say a word.

  After a moment he said, "I guess I did mean that. I suppose that's what you mean by your S detector? Do you think something like that can be sustained night after night?"

  "Do you think we'll run out of hypocrites?"

  He made some notes on the pad in front of him.

  "Miss Widmer, have you ever been given any psychological testing, TAT, Rorschach, things like that?"

  "No."

  "Do you think you could handle call-ins?"

  "The cranks?"

  "We prefer to call them our listeners."

  "Mr. Straws, you saw me handle Butterball. Do you think I could handle call-ins?"

  He scratched the scratch pad with his pen.

  "If you were on the air, Mr. Straws, you'd have to answer or we'd be stuck with dead air."

  "Unless you picked up the ball. The responsibility would always be yours."

  "You've been testing me."

  "Are you squeamish about sex?"

  "Are we on the air or off the air?"

  "On."

  "Don't you get a few seconds' delay on the call-in questions?"

  "Yes, of course. The producer monitors those. I meant a guest in the studio, when you're on live."

  "You mean what do I do if someone tells me their preference is necrophilia? I'd say how convenient."

  "I think you'll be all right on your feet."

  "I thought this program was conducted sitting down."

  "Very nice. Miss Widmer. Ad libbing is the whole thing. I have one reservation."

  "About…?"

  "You. You might get bored with the trivial discussions that go on night after night."

  "It'd be up to me not to bore myself. Or the listeners."

  "I wouldn't worry about the listeners. They've been with Lily Audrey for years. They're used to lapses. The problem all the guest hosts will face will be their loyalty."

  "To her?"

  "Yes. Your advantage is that their loyalty seems to be greater to the station." He stopped doodling. "Miss Widmer, if we decide to use you as one of the substitute hosts, do you think you could get a week's leave of absence from the U.N.?"

  "Oh that's no problem. It's just I'd feel inhibited on the air if I were still employed at the U.N. I'd have to resign."

  "I wouldn't dream of having you resign for a one-week assignment."

  "I could take that risk. Perhaps if I—" His mind seemed elsewhere. "If in a week's trial I did as well as the other night with Butterball, you might find some other spot for me while you rode out Lily Audrey's contract. Or does that seem too speculative?"

  "You're quite a daring young woman, Miss Widmer."

  "I thought that might be a characteristic you were looking for." It was at that second I knew that I had given him a cue he had been looking for.

  "Miss Widmer, while I wouldn't dream of you taking a risk like that for one week, I assume you don't have family responsibilities, budget obligations?"

  "I'm single."

  "There was a man with you the other night…"

  "A friend."

  "A good friend?"

  I laughed nervously. "Not at the moment."

  "I see. Well then, perhaps we can go into this further at dinner, perhaps later this week."

  He stopped. I said nothing.

  "In fact," he went on, "my wife's traveling in Europe, we could meet at the apartment for a drink, unless you preferred a nightcap afterward."

  Clunk. It couldn't have been more explicit.

  "Mr. Straws—"

  "Call me Henry if you like."

  "Mr. Straws, I am very excited about the prospect of this chance to show what I can do. On the air. I do want us to get to know each other better. Professionally. But I've had three very recent experiences, one rape, one attempted rape, and one seduction. I suppose the casting couch is somewhere in between, but I don't think I can hack it. If it's a job requirement, the answer is no."

  He did the thing with the tips of his fingers again, then said, "You've made that clear."

  "I trust it won't matter."

  "Miss Widmer. I don't think you can risk giving up your existing position for a one-week trial that, frankly, has little chance now—" he paused over the now " — of
leading somewhere more permanent here. I also think, if you will forgive me, that you are a tad ambitious for someone with negligible experience in broadcasting, and that you would soon find any routine interview show not to your liking."

  "It wouldn't be routine," I protested.

  "You'd get restless quickly, I can see that, you'd want to move on and up. Ambition is commendable, but without a cooperative attitude on your part… where are you going?"

  I had stood up without realizing it.

  "Mr. Straws," I said, "I am going to make it my business to find out who is the biggest competitor you have, and get a job with him paying nothing if I have to, and work my way up so fast you'll never know what happened to you when I'm on opposite your highest-rated show. I do thank you for this interview."

  And I was gone. I did not slam the door. Oh George Thomassy, you would have been proud of my exit, you jealous son of a bitch.

  Forty-five

  Francine

  You make a mistake. You know you've made a mistake. You don't rectify it. You compound it by making something remediable drag until it is too late.

  I wasn't about to let George Thomassy escape my life without giving it one more chance. I wanted to find a way to apologize for the stupidity of our argument. I wanted him to make love to me so I could make love to him.

  I didn't think I could handle it in a phone call. And I didn't want to call for an appointment. Saturday, he would be home. I drove there from my parents' house. He wasn't home. I went to a nearby coffee shop and gave it forty minutes, figuring he was out getting something or other. I could feel my courage ebbing. I went back to his place. No answer.

  It was easy to decipher. He had reacted to our quarrel by spending Friday night with Jane or one of the others. He didn't spend nights with women, he said. Then why wasn't he here Saturday morning?

  Perhaps spending a night with a woman — he had with me — now interested Mr. Privacy. I drove part way back home, turned around and went back to his place.

  No luck. I'd leave a note. What to say?

  I tore up three versions. What I left was an unsigned piece of paper wedged in the door that said I was here. You weren't.

  That sounded like an accusation. I got out of my car and went back to the house and added to the note Sorry.

  Maybe he won't even recognize my handwriting!

  I called Bill. A date with Bill wouldn't be absolute neutrality. He would comfort me. He would compliment me and mean it. Seeing Bill wasn't a step forward in any direction for me, but would Bill understand that, or would he seize on this overture from me as a promise?

  It turned out that Bill had a date for Saturday night. Succor was needed, but someone was protecting Bill from me.

  Bill called back. He'd been able to get out of his Saturday-night date gracefully.

  "Why?"

  "You come first, Francine."

  I couldn't respect his dialogue, Just his decency and friendship. Be careful, Bill, I wanted to say, this is a different league. He suggested he'd pick me up at my parents' house and we'd go to an early dinner and a movie.

  As expected, Father Widmer's pleasure showed when it turned out to be Bill Acton at the door.

  After the amenities, I took Bill by the elbow and steered him toward the door. "We'll be late," I said for the others to hear.

  When we were outside, he said, "Late for what?"

  "Late for getting the hell out of the house, dummy."

  "I didn't make reservations. I didn't know where you'd want to go."

  "The first place I want to go is my apartment, which I wouldn't dream of going near without an escort." I put my arm through his.

  "Isn't that guy still around?"

  "I guess. I think he's out on bail, something like that. He's shorter than you are."

  Bill looked all Adam's apple at that moment.

  "I'm not worried about him, if you're not worried about him."

  "Well, then," I said, "let's go."

  When we got there, before we got out of the car, I looked up at the windows above mine. Dark. The whole apartment dark.

  "They must have gone somewhere," I said.

  "I hope to hell."

  I laughed.

  "You know what I meant," said Bill. "Francine, I'm not as dumb as you sometimes think I am."

  "I never think that!" I lied.

  "What I'm trying to say is that I sometimes actually wish you weren't as smart or as attractive as you are."

  I guess I looked puzzled, because he went on, "Maybe I'd have more of a chance."

  Well, what does a woman do? I liked Bill. I trusted him. I wondered if the girl he'd broken his date with went to bed with him. He preferred me, the sweet idiot.

  We didn't get to dinner or the movie. I took some booze from the cupboard, made us each a light drink, put a record on, lit up a joint, caressed his head, kissed his cheek, let him kiss me on the mouth.

  I took a drag — it'd been a long time, it seemed — and passed the joint to him. I could feel the desperation of his longing. He wasn't a horny guy looking to get his rocks off. It was my friend Bill, close to being my ex-friend Bill if Thomassy would have me, wanting a woman he thought himself not interesting enough for. Some people would call what happened a mercy fuck. God I hate that term, mercy for whom? For both of us! Bill made love to me instead of dinner, instead of the movies, and my urging him to stay the night after I had called home and said Bill had dropped me off at my apartment and it was okay, and then agreeing when he woke me during the night, and even letting him when what was in my mind was the note in Thomassy's door, imagining Thomassy's expression when he saw it, and why oh why wasn't he phoning?

  Comment by Thomassy

  The plane bumped around on the flight back from Syracuse Saturday, but my thoughts bumped around more. One moment I was thinking of the old man, we had displayed our first affection as adults, after all these years, and the next moment I was thinking of that bitch Francine, berating me for being what I was at a time when I was beginning to think I might lead a different kind of life, with another person in it. I couldn't change my age. I couldn't change into a Wasp. I wouldn't change my vocation an inch. And I wouldn't be jealous of hers if she had one. But I might learn to share what? A bed, we'd done that. A kitchen? A home? It seemed too drastic to contemplate, too important not to contemplate.

  At LaGuardia I found myself loping to the cabstand only to find an impossible line. What was I doing? I'd parked my own car at the airport. I was breathless by the time I got to the lot — I couldn't remember which section I had parked in — and couldn't find my car keys in my pockets. I turned them all inside out one at a time. Had I misplaced them up in Oswego? I'd had the keys for the rented car. I'd turned that in. What had I done with my own keys? Being in love was a state of madness.

  I used the key I had hidden in a magnetized metal container under the hood. I couldn't go to her now, in this state, I had to get a hold of myself, calm down, think what I would say to her.

  I don't know what would have happened if I had driven straight to her parents' house from the airport. I went home, found Francine's note, took a hot bath, thought of the old man, glad I had gone, thought of Francine, knew that in the morning, my best hours, I would phone, drive over, and welcome Sunday with her. I had a crazy idea we'd drive to the city and do Central Park if the sun came out.

  I had a deep sleep, not a long one. I was up at 6:00 A.M., eager to go. I put on a turtleneck and a sporty jacket I thought she'd like. Was I dressing younger? I had to put ideas like that out of my head. I breakfasted on fried eggs over and bacon and four pieces of buttered toast with my favorite dark orange marmalade. I brushed my teeth a second time that morning. I took time to stop in the self-service car wash. Crazy to wash the car when it was raining. It's only a sunshower, what the hell! I even vacuumed the inside. From a phone booth I dialed her parents' number, hoping she would answer. When it rang the fourth and fifth time I got jumpy. Then a drowsy-voiced Ned Widmer answer
ed, "Yes?"

  "I'm awfully sorry, Ned. This is George Thomassy. I'm just back from out of town and was hoping to catch Francine early this morning. Is she awake?"

  "I'm not. She called late last night to say she wouldn't be staying here."

  "She wouldn't have gone back to the apartment with Koslak out on bail, would she?"

  "I certainly hope she didn't. She. " He stopped, and didn't seem to want to continue.

  "Where'd she call you from yesterday evening?"

  "I didn't ask. As you said, George, she's on her own now. I don't supervise her social engagements."

  I thanked him, and apologized for waking him up. Was she out on a date? Was I jealous? This is stupid. I dialed her apartment. Again, several rings, and a sleepy Francine said, just as her father had, "Yes?"

  I hung up. I didn't want to apologize for waking her until later. I got into the car and drove within the speed limit for a change because I sure as hell wanted to get there alive.

  "Who is it?" she said through the door in a voice that grumpily indicated she had gone back to sleep.

  "George."

  She opened it on the chain. Didn't she believe it was me?

  "Wait a minute," she said.

  I was impatient, anxious, and it took at least two or three minutes for her to come back and let me in. She was wearing a housecoat. She may have run a comb through her hair, but it sure didn't look it. I didn't care. She looked as I had dreamed of her looking this morning.

  "Do you realize what time it is?" she said.

  I looked at my watch. It wasn't seven-thirty yet.

  "Sorry to be so early," I said. "I thought we might spend the day together. There's a lot to talk about. I'm sure the rain won't last. I thought we might—"

  "Where were you yesterday?"

  "Oswego, with my old man."

  "Did you find my note?"

  "I was going to drive to Chez Widmer straight from the airport. Good thing I decided to wait till morning. I found your note. I was almost tempted to drive over then. But I waited. Woke your father. I thought you were scared to stay here alone?"

  I put my hands out in the way I had done before but she did not take them. She said, "George, could you go for a walk or a drive for half an hour and come back?"