by Sam Juneau
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Necessities
It was decided that I would leave soon and seek work in our old stomping grounds. But first, the harvest. Bud and I delayed and debated and contemplated and finally decided to pick our apples. It was difficult to do anything with two children much less climb trees and carry apples and load crates. The poor things were falling quickly. We thought it would be nice to serve apple juice to our much-desired guests, and it might be fun too.
We dug around in the outbuildings gathering old wooden boxes and fruit crates from times long past. We bundled the kids up into the van and made our way to the west side of our property. There, lined in semi-even lines, were 20 unhealthy looking apple trees bearing small misshapen apples of yellow, red and green. Across the pebble road which ran through the middle of our property was a line also of handsome, splayed pear trees, pinned obediently like little crucifixes against the broad, high stone wall of our garden. We decided to mix the two into a fancy Bonchamps blend – more out of necessity as the apples were sickly this year.
I ran around like an eager fool shaking trees and tossing apples and swinging Blue and Grim in wide circles as they laughed madly and we filled crate after crate. Bud worked more diligently with less fanfare and achieved more with less work. The children, with their small, cherubic bodies rolled on the damp, cool grass and nibbled every so often the juicy flesh of our modest harvest. They laughed and fell and got up again, delighted with this new game. Peals of laughter filled the air and echoed off the tall, dark woods just beyond. Hours later, Bud and I grew tired of our new profession and decided to call it quits, the decision made easier by the fact that hundreds of tiny, biting spiders loved to call the apple tree home. I lugged out an old set of weighing scales made of wood and iron and we measured our take. Two hundred kilos. Not bad.
We loaded our treasure into the old red van and drove to a local cooperative for pressing and pasteurising and bottling. Late in the evening, we drove back to the house, fiercely proud of our new-found farming skills. One hundred and fifty-seven bottles filled with golden brown liquid and fresh, tiny pieces of apple. We sat in the kitchen sampling the vintage and drinking long, satisfying glasses as Blue and Grim slept soundly on the cats’ bed. Of all the possible places they could sleep in the house, they inevitably chose this untidy resting place. All was right in the Juneau household, at least for a day.
Ten days later, I landed in New York without a job or a place to live. I had managed to line up some interviews through old contacts in the business, but nothing was certain. It was a risk but I figured there was always work in New York. And what else could I do? We had no choice.
My best lead was a show about Hollywood and crime on a network called Court TV. The station was devoted exclusively to trials and the law and the live programming of infamous and tawdry cases. I had a couple of buddies working on the show Hollywood At Large and the supervising producer was an old colleague of mine from when I made documentaries.
I arrived in New York a little sad but very excited to be back for the first time since we’d abandoned ship. I took a taxi and as we drove across the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge straight into the heart of Manhattan, I was once again astounded at the breadth and height and grandeur of the city. The contrast with our homely little country town with its neat, routine ways and small row houses made me feel like a Lilliputian.
I went straight to the Court TV headquarters from the airport and was met by my friend Steve with a hearty handshake and a full smile. Steve and I had worked together on the old documentary show and had had loads of laughs. He was in his late forties but had a childish, devilish passion that always got me going. He had been an on-air presenter for years and was now toiling away behind the camera as a writer and producer. It was good to see him.
We had coffee and talked about the old days as I waited to meet the executive producer, a woman named Judy Bishop. After a few minutes, her secretary called me into her office.
‘Hi, very nice to meet you. I’m Sam Juneau.’
‘Good to see you. I’ve heard a lot about you. Sit down, please.’
Judy was a well-put-together woman of a certain age with blondish-brown hair, a fashionable black wool skirt and knee-high leather boots. We chatted briefly about the flight and the friends I had working with her.
‘So, Sam, one of the producers told me you have a chateau in France. Why on earth are you here looking for freelance work?’
‘It’s a long story, but basically I need the money. It’s that simple. We’ve started a B&B and now we are running out of money and I’m here to throw myself at the mercy of New York TV once again.’
I had planned to be honest about my desperate situation without really appearing too desperate. I showed her our website with pictures of the chateau and she was speechless. She eyed me curiously and briefly asked me about my other work experience, but I could tell she was familiar with me from speaking to my friends.
‘So, when can you start? Does tomorrow morning suit you?’
‘Perfect. I’ll be here at nine. What’s the rate?’
‘How’s two thousand a week?’
‘It’s a deal.’
It was that easy, thankfully. We were very needy at this point and I was grateful my gamble to fly to the States paid off so quickly. The pay was decent and the work seemed exciting.
I called Bud with the good news just as she was settling into bed.
‘Bud, I got a job today on Court TV. It’s two grand a week so we can breathe easier for the time being.’
‘That’s great, Sam. But today we ran out of gas for the heaters and it’s freezing here. They’re coming in two days to fill the tanks up but it’ll be about two or three grand.’
Great. One and a half weeks of work just for the gas. And that gas would last us about two months, maybe two and a half. Thankfully, we only used the gas in the winter. I might have to stay a little longer than anticipated.
Now for a place to stay. I had a few options but all were short-term, mainly friends here and there. For the first week, I could stay with David, a friend from my college days who lived alone in Greenwich Village. My other immediate option was another friend, John Paul, who lived on a large estate about an hour north of the city.
After my triumphant interview, due entirely to the goodwill of friends, I headed downtown to David’s and got out of the cab a few blocks early to enjoy the walk. I was on sensory overload after so much country life and isolation and the profound preoccupations of running my own estate. The shapes and sizes and faces and thousands and millions of particular and unique bodies darting everywhere at once filled me with exhilaration and excitement. The shops and the consumers and the goods and the plenty and the bounty and the large SUVs and fierce, hornet-like taxis swerving the streets wore me down in about 30 minutes. I found my way to David’s art deco building, contacted the concierge,
worked my way through his many locks and passed out on the sofa.
A few hours later, at around 7.30, David came in the door. It was New York after all – how could he possibly be home at five like a good French worker? In fact, he told me later, 7.30 was average, and a bit on the early side. We went to dinner and caught up on all the news. I slept fitfully, my dreams filled with images of the day and at least one thrilling, somewhat terrifying pursuit dream.
The next morning, I headed off on the subway to my new job. It felt good to be back in the mix. I couldn’t say how long that feeling would last, but for now I was energised, delighted to be part of the working world, delighted to earn a few bob and support my starving family. Well, not quite starving. It’s hard to get sympathy from anyone when you live in a chateau in the French countryside.
I quickly inserted myself into the job and took my fair share of ribbing. The kids on the staff called me ‘count’, prompted by my dear friend Steve. It didn’t take long before I was back to my old self. Steve and I worked hard and did good work while bantering and playing and acting like ei
ght-year-old boys. We told jokes and made fake farts and made fun of people and complained about the way things were run and ate almost everyday at a true New York diner just across the street. After the rich, beautiful country fare of France, I was beyond myself with joy to be eating hamburgers and fried chicken and waffles every day. I thought I had died and gone to heaven. That’s one thing about being an expat – the longing, the lack of familiar tastes and sounds does wear on you over time. In France, everything was different, from sirens to TV to food to the weather to the pace of life. The old and familiar fit me like a well-worn coat.
Over the next few months, I worked on all sorts of salacious and fun stories. I interviewed Bianca Jagger about the lawsuit she had launched against her landlord over some mould in her apartment. New York made you crazy in that way. Scarce resources, small dark spaces, and astronomical prices all lead, eventually, to the day when you will sue someone. She was very sweet, another woman of a certain age but sexy and lively nonetheless. Just before the piece aired, she would call me and leave messages at work making sure I didn’t forget about this and that fact or these and those grievances. She would always begin with, ‘Saaaam, darling, I need so much to talk to you…’ Then she would dig into the minutiae of the risks of black mould. It became a running joke in the office and most people then called me ‘count’ or ‘Saaaam’.
Then, all hell broke loose. It seemed Michael Jackson, the King of Pop, the best-selling performer in the history of the universe had allegedly made a transgression, against a young, dying Hispanic boy. This story came down the pipeline like a whirlwind and hit us like a ton of bricks. Diane Dimond, an experienced and tenacious reporter, then working solo, had gotten exclusive access to the raid on Neverland Ranch, north of Los Angeles. It was announced breathlessly that she would be working for the network and our show on this and other stories.
The day the news broke we scrambled like chickens with our heads cut off to edit and piece together Diane’s footage and reports from the great, sordid event. We crashed and put a rather lengthy and balanced package together in a matter of hours and made air that night. The next day, Diane showed up at our offices.
She walked into the room after we were all seated. She was striking, youngish and very well maintained with perfect anchor person hair, a wide, white toothy smile and good skin. She greeted all of us and settled down to business.
The following days were consumed with a repackaged rehashing of the infamous allegations. We worked long hours and in the madness, I realised I had overstayed my welcome at David’s in the Village by several weeks. So, at the end of this insane week, I packed my one little bag with three changes of clothing and headed off on the train, like a good little commuter, to Bedford, an hour north of New York and the home of my friend John Paul. It felt odd walking through Grand Central Station, one of thousands rushing to make the train, coats and briefcases and hair and legs dashing and careening across the concourse. JP met me at the train station an hour later and we drove five minutes to his house where I promptly passed out on the sofa. Too much activity for my country self, too many stimuli.
The next day I awoke to a brilliant blue sky and the warmth of a cosy bed. I had spent the night in the guest house with JP. His father owned the property and came out from the city on weekends. Bedford had the convenience of a good commuter community while feeling and looking like a small New England town set in the remote countryside. The area was home to the rich and famous, people like Donald Trump, Susan Sarandon, Martha Stewart and a bevy of movers and shakers in the New York area.
We drank coffee in the morning and went up to the main house around one. I greeted JP’s father, a robust, businesslike man who talked fast and accepted no bullshit, and his wife, a lovely French woman originally from near Toulouse. Immediately she and I hit it off as we both pondered the beauty and greatness of France while pooh-poohing the crude and unsophisticated ways of America. Here I was, working in the most tawdry, consumer-driven sector of American culture, the apex of all that was crude and base and unreflective in the US, and I was talking about the depravity of the nation that gave me the opportunity to buy a chateau and now enabled me to support my poor family. Absurd.
We sat down for a formal lunch, filled with wine and four courses and after-dinner drinks followed by a long conversation in front of the fire, all served up by pleasant and well-treated servants. Shortly after we had had our fill of gossip and entertaining, I called Bud.
I thought it might be nice to share such a pleasant, soul-affirming experience with my beloved. But the picture on the other side of the Atlantic was not so festive. I was seeing old friends, running around New York, working on an exciting story and feasting like a spoiled Renaissance cardinal at a fine country estate. I was indeed lonely for Bud and Blue and Grim but consoled myself with a few treats here and there. Bud wasn’t having it. Nor should she.
‘It’s not fair. It’s freezing here, I have to take care of the kids by myself and I saw a rat the size of a dog trotting down the stairs last night.’
We spoke at length and determined that, even though I had only been gone a month, I could not, should not leave her with the running of our property. We would have to come up with something to change our situation.
I couldn’t help it. I repeated, by the grace and generosity of my kind hosts, the same spectacle on Sunday – food, wine, dessert, more drinks. On Monday, I rose from my weekend-induced daze and trundled off to the train to make my commute to midtown Manhattan. I boarded with hundreds of my fellow ‘Man in the Gray Flannel Suit’ comrades and arrived early at the office. Instead of working on the television show, I searched all morning for wedding and marriage websites and set about advertising on as many as I could find. I found a particularly good guide that had both an Internet and guidebook companion that focused exclusively on the centre and north-west of France.
I was determined to be with my family. Certainly, my welcome back to New York was splendid. But I couldn’t help thinking over and over, the life we were living now was a long way from our stated and intended goal. In fact, it was the exact opposite. I also booked a flight home in two weeks so I could spend at least a few days at home before I returned to continue my getting and spending and working in the Big Apple. My final personal call of the morning was to the only rat-catcher listed in Anjou. I set up an appointment at the chateau with Bud and turned my mind to the work at hand.
That afternoon, we had another meeting with Diane and the troops. Just before the meeting, Judy, the executive producer, called me into her office.
‘Sam, I have an assignment for you. I want you to go with Diane to Los Angeles to cover the preliminary hearings of the Jackson trial. You’ll be out there from the end of this week probably for a week. She’s tough and aggressive and will need your help. Are you up for it?’
‘Sounds great,’ I replied, unbelieving of my good fortune. I had been to LA before on stories and liked it there – the sun and the sense of possibility. But this also solved a more pressing problem: I could stay on the road in a hotel at company expense and not impose too desperately on my friends.
Diane and I met at the airport. She was flying first class and I was in the back with the peasants. Somehow – perhaps the check-in woman recognised her – Diane arranged an upgrade so we could both sit up front and discuss business. This was a far cry from the goats and chickens I had flown with on my way over from France on my budget flight. I liked the way she did business.
We arrived in LA and hired a baby-blue Jaguar with a sunroof. It was sunny, and 78 degrees. We left the airport and started out towards the Beverly Hills Hotel, the site of a secret crisis meeting being held by Jackson’s financial advisers. Diane had somehow convinced the powers that be it was necessary to stay at this hotel so we could scour the lobby, look for scoops and interviews and possibly get the inside track on the inner workings of the Jackson camp.
We checked as the fanciest cars pulled up loaded with their well-heeled passengers.
We spent the afternoon making calls, setting up interviews and trying to stir up information on the secret meeting. Shortly after dinner, we retired to the bar with our cameraman Peter and a few other newsies from various networks. We chatted excitedly about the purported meeting as Sylvester Stallone, all five–foot-nothing of him, sidled up to the bar with a young cutie. James Caan sat in a dark corner with another twenty-nothing hottie. He recognised Diane from television and asked her to join them for a drink. Diane waved me over and we chatted with Sonny Corleone for a few minutes. He seemed like a nice man but I couldn’t help searching his hairline like a mildly deranged child trying to count the number of hairplugs in his famously enhanced pate.
The next days were filled with interviews, past and present Jackson accusers, attorneys, minor celebs and experts of every sort and colour. A week into the trip, we made our way to Santa Barbara to stage our next set of interviews before the big court hearing just north of there. Santa Barbara is quite simply one of the most beautiful spots on earth. It is a place where the spectacular Santa Ynez Mountains crash like silent titans into the rough and splendid waters of the Pacific Ocean. The weather is perfect, sunny and 80 degrees most times of the year; the people are friendly; there is no disease and no poverty and the streets are clean. This is entirely untrue yet it seemed to be the case as I installed myself in a large suite boasting a vast balcony with clear views to the horizon of the roaring sea. I would keep this one to myself for now. It was just too much. Fortunately, for the sake of my conscience, we only stayed there for three days.