by G L Rockey
I remembered, now yesterday morning, when Berry informed me of his decision to put Peggy on the weather. And Berry thinks he's using her, and she thinks she's using him, and Snakebite is somewhere in there with Stella, and I'm in the middle with the raisins and nuts.
She said, “Will you?”
“What?”
“Silly, help me be good.”
“Good is relative.”
“Silly Jack, it'll be the best weather show ever. Come over her, sit beside me.”
“No.”
“Stinker.” She got on all fours, and crawled across the floor.
Her hands hard, from up here, it looked like another Lovelace replay.
At a pause in the action, she said, “I like him, Mr. Carr. I like him a lot. Him mine now.”
Hope she gets the “hims” straight.
PART THREE
CHAPTER 1
Two weeks later
Jack’s Time
Monday, April 30, the day of Peggy's premiere with us in real time, the past two weeks I had been spending considerable time at Tara. Peggy had put Snakebite, Stella, everybody on notice, her new TV show demanded all her attention, stay away, she was in rehearsal, needed her rest. Her performances Saturday night at Felix The Cat, she wanted me to go, but no, not a good idea. Presenting a house key to Tara, she suggested I be at Tara when she got home from her Saturday night performances.
“What about Snake—”
Her fingers on my lips, her eyes said a hasher version of shush up.
Anyway, Sunday pretty much a repeat performance, after leaving Tara Monday morning, I dashed home to dress in Monday's uniform (navy blazer, etcetera).
* * *
Driving to TV12, I glanced at Blancpain, little after 8:25 A.M. Winston's top down, sweet spring air, I settled in the right lane at 55 mph and began shaving. Norelco humming away, my thoughts went to our new weather show. Berry had come up with the title “TV12's C&Weather with Peggy Moore”. We built a new weather set that resembled the Grand ol’ Opry stage: red barn door, bales of hay, weather vane. The set was fine, it was the other stuff that wasn't coming together. After two weeks of run-throughs, format changes, late night rehearsals, the show was treading on, what my Aunt Jane might call, shifting sand.
* * *
I got to the station a little after 8:45. Joy, not at her desk, everything appeared under control and aroma from a fresh brew of coffee filled the air. I poured a mug, closed my door, took off my coat, went to my desk and, long day ahead, passed on Jack Daniels and began going through the morning mail.
As I sorted the junk mail from the stuff I needed to read, I was thinking about today's game plan.
Joe and I had been advised to be in Berry's office at 4:00 to catch Peggy's premiere. We were also advised that after the premiere, tonight, we were going to The Berry Inn. Berry had invited select executives from Dillards (sponsors of Peggy's weather show, part of the sponsorship package included Peggy wearing a different outfits from Dillards each night) to the Pheasant & Grouse for a celebration. Peggy was to be presented a plaque by Berry. Newspapers invited, our LIVE-EYE unit was also to be there. I was advised to instruct station news personnel, for the plaque presentation, around 8:00 P.M., to cut into CBS programming for a live report. In addition, I was directed to have a story on the late news about the gala. Joe was told to have Jay make a promo out of Berry's plaque presentation, run “the bejesus out of it” on our air. Berry had ordered a media blitz to advertise the premiere and, for the past two weeks, on all our newscasts, we presented stories on set construction, Peggy's hair stylist, show sponsor, assorted doo-dah-day.
* * *
Going through the morning mail, I got a call from Luther Mays. Returned from his two-week Sedona vacation, he had heard about Peggy's premiere, seen the on-air promos. Nothing personal toward me, but he said he was at Channel 3 as we spoke, had been hired to do their weather casts. Lust in his voice, he said, “Say hello to Joe and Berry.”
I went up and told Berry. He exploded. Called in Bobbi, wanted to sue Luther, his dog, his wife, his grandchildren, dig up his dead parents, sue them all, sue Channel 3. Bobbi told him he would be wasting his time. Berry threw an ashtray, couple glasses, then cooled when Bobbi explained what a law suit might cost: the chances of losing were excellent; morale at the station, already poor, would suffer even more. Then, when she mentioned that the pending sale of TV12 to S&W Broadcasting, with a lawsuit, might “get fucked up,” Berry asked how The Berry Inn's business looked.
“Easter Sunday whorehouse slow,” she said.
* * *
I went back to my office, conducted the morning news producers meeting then, at a little after 11:00 A.M., an urgent page came over the station P.A. system: “Galbo, Carr, Speaker, front office, immediately. Front office immediately, Galbo, Carr, Speaker, front office.”
Joy, as I stepped past her desk to answer the page, remarked, “Good luck.”
* * *
Ten minutes later, Galbo, Jay, and I gathered in Berry's office. Joe wore a charcoal suit, white shirt, gray tie, black wingtips. Jay, hair cut short, wore a light brown sports jacket, blue shirt, and a paisley tie. Berry, leaning again his window’s sill, was decked out in a white three-piece suit, blue polka dot tie, red candy striped shirt, looked like Uncle Sam ready for the Fourth of July. I was in shirt sleeves and had loosened my tie.
Berry, smirking at my attire, ambled over to his desk and asked, “We all squared away for the weather show, Carr?”
“Squared.”
He sat and looked at Joe, “Peggy's Dillards outfit here, ready to go, commercial all set?”
Closed eyes nod from Joe.
Berry looked at Jay, “Speaker, I didn’t see many promo spots last night, this morning, for Peggy’s weather, we should be running the hell out of those things, every break, what happened?” He made a note on a yellow legal pad which he had taken from his middle desk drawer (in meetings off-record he hauled this pad out and made notes for future executions).
Jay said, “We were waiting….”
“Waiting for what?” Berry said.
“To get the okay from Joe to take some commercial spot time.”
“Wait a minute.” Berry looked at Joe, “Didn't I tell you to go ahead with extra promos two weeks ago, free up some commercial time?”
Joe said, “And I told some bozo down there in promotion that same day to go ahead.”
Joe glanced at me. I could read lie all over his face. He shrugged a so what
Jay leaned forward and addressed Joe. “Who in promotion did you tell to go ahead with preempting commercials for promo spots, Galbo?”
“One of those Daffy Duck grunts you got running around down there.”
Jay said, “I'm certain no one passed the go-ahead to me or anyone else….”
“You calling me a liar?” Joe started to stand.
Berry said, “Sit down Galbo, take a chill pill.” He made another note on his legal pad. As he wrote, he said, “The point is we haven’t been running enough promo spots for Peggy. Who cares who told who?”
Jay said, “I'm certain that nobody was advised to go ahead with….”
“Can it.” Berry sneered and made another note. “Procrastination is the thief of time, Speaker. Better get on the ball, boy. Time and tide wait for no man.”
I looked at Joe then Berry and saw, opening like a new book, the lie at work—crackling with promise but, after the first page, drivel. And I saw that Berry saw it and I saw that Joe saw that he saw it and I recognized the universal grab and I saw the sign that confirmed it—Joe's cheeks twitched. Then I sensed a presence rising in the room, around ankle high, like nasty stuff in a cesspool. And there was a sound like gnawing rats and I smelled spice and sweet perfume and something rancid mixed in with the rotting paper and waste. I felt a sick grin covering my face. Then I heard words looking back at me that I had said, “If I'm wrong, fuck right!”
Berry looked surprised.
Joe sai
d, “Jesus Christ.”
I felt some other person getting up, going for the door.
Berry said, “Where you going, Carr?”
“I forgot something.”
“Sit goddamn down!”
I sat.
Berry made another note, shook his head, said to Jay, “You messed up again Speaker. Day late and a dollar short.” He glanced at Joe, shook his head the way my math teacher did when giving me an F.
Berry stood and said, “That's all I have.” He looked at Joe and me. “See you two guys at 4:00.”
* * *
Leaving Berry's meeting Jay intercepted me at Otis. We went to my office. He seemed distant, outside of time. He kept saying things like: “One day you wake up and realize you might never be anything more than what you always feared you'd only be.
“Biggie wiggie went to market and biggie wiggie found the market had been sold. Sold to a hog butcher blood red and dripping. Greed begetting greed in a sea of sameness.”
Then, from a long long way off, he said, “The thing of it is, Jack, you just can never go back and yell ‘olly olly’ in free.”
He touched my desk with his fingertips. “You ever get the urge to just leave it all, go to some place where you could be plain you and others could be plain them.”
I said, “If you ever find that place let me know.”
“I think maybe it's not a place but a time and maybe we'll never get there because we lived it and we lost it.” He went to the door, looked back, and said, “Thanks for listening.”
I noticed, very small and thin as a dime, time seemed to stand still and something didn't fit. Then there he was, flushing up out of Jay. The creep had been feeding on me too.
I stood. “Jay, let's talk some more.”
“Why?” He left.
* * *
Noon-ish, driving to Krystal for lunch, Sago filled me in on the latest S-Stuff. “Some Chuck guy out of Houston has his fingers in a chinchilla pie.”
Arrived Krystal, Sago had a double cheese, large fries, and a root beer. I had a chicken sandwich and a cola.
Driving back to the station, we stopped at a Par Mart, Eskimo Pie for Sago, he commented that he hadn't seen much of me lately, nights, Angelo was asking too. The Petes at The Green Onion were concerned. I told him I had been busy with, ah, ah….
Like I said, he could see chicken tracks on a concrete road, he knew who the ah ah was. He said, “That's going to blow up in your face Kemosabe, in one of these not to distant days.”
“Thank you counselor Yu.”
The gathering at 4:00 in Berry’s office, to view Peggy's premier, started on a sour note. Supposed to be at the station by 3:00, a little after 4:15 Peggy had not yet arrived.
I sat at the bar, coat off, tie loosened, and, being an expert in such matters, knew 3:00 meant around 4:00 to Peggy.
But time-is-money Berry, I guess unfamiliar with Peggy’s time, looking blotchy, a second Manhattan South in hand, began to pace between his desk and window, fiddling with his silver TV12 cufflinks.
Mid pace, he stopped, said, “Is Peggy's Dillards outfit here, Carr, all ready to go on that?”
He asked that this morning. I said cheerfully, “Yep.”
I glanced to Joe. Seeming uninterested, his dark blue suit coat draped over a chair, he sprawled on the sofa and sucked on a can of diet Pepsi.
Around 4:25, I noticed Berry's office had become cold like a mausoleum on a dark winter afternoon and Berry looked like he might throw up.
As I dragged Salem to the filter and crushed it out, Berry riveted me. “Well, Mr. Hotshot News Director, where is your fucking goddamn weather talent?”
After a moment to catch my breath, loosening my tie another notch, I said, “She'll show up. Trust me.”
Joe spit a bit of fingernail to the side.
Berry ambled to his desk and kicked it. “For your sake, she better.”
I pinched myself. Yep, you're here.
A pause in the script, I sipped and was thinking of another favorite quote of Aunt Janes' from Ecclesiastes: better is the end of a thing than the beginning thereof.
Makes sense, I thought, because this ending, even before the beginning has begun, has ended and, for the past two weeks, rehearsing, playing games, I knew I knew it. Then I thought, how funny it is, when we begin weaving a beginning, the end each day gets further away, and when you hold on it disappears.
The wall clock struck 4:30. Half hour to premiere airtime and still no Peggy.
Berry, sitting behind his desk, Manhattan South in hand, mumbled, “I can't fucking believe this.” Then, sweat rings seeping through his underarms, he stood, ripped off his coat, and slung it to the floor. “Biggest day in this station's fucking goddamn history and it gets guffawed.” He removed his cufflinks, threw them on his desk, and rolled up his sleeves.
Big Joe sighed a long satisfied smile.
Just then the buzzing of Berry's private line sliced the room.
Berry hiccuped.
Joe looked at me.
The phone buzzed again. Berry stared at the phone like it might bite him.
It buzzed again.
Picking up, the speaker on, he slurred, “Flayzer.”
Peggy said, “Hi there.”
Berry burped: “Where ares ya darlin?”
“Pulling in the drive now.”
Berry dropped the receiver, stumbled to his window, and looked out.
Peggy's voice over the speaker: “Hello.”
Joe in a loud whisper: “That broad is so dumb I'll bet she has to have a road map to get home at night.”
Peggy: “Berry, you there?”
Emitting an awful sound, Berry ran to his bathroom.
Joe stood, looked surprised, walked to the bathroom door and called, “Berry, you okay in there?”
I stepped up and peeked in. Yep. Kneeling, Berry vomited into his bidet. I said to Joe, “You want to do tonight’s Pheasant & Grouse presentation?”
CHAPTER 2
Real Time
6:01:00 P.M. CDT
In Felix The Cat's Kitten dressing room, Gillian readied herself for work. Her Kitten costume, slightly snug, enhanced her bronze complexion. Turquoise eye shadow deepened the rum color of her eyes and a new layer of white gloss enhanced her full lips. She brushed out the blonde highlights in her shoulder-length caramel-colored hair. A hint of tabu spice perfume on each wrist, four inch heels put her at 6 feet 3 inches. She was getting better at walking on the stilettos.
CHAPTER 3
Jack’s Time
Peggy's premiere weather show over, I broke the news to her that the scheduled Pheasant & Grouse presentation party had been cancelled, Berry ill, Joe had taken him home.
She seemed disappointed, not in Berry, but the canceled publicity. “What about the news story, the promo shoot?”
“Guess we'll have to reschedule.”
“Poop.”
She suggested we go somewhere anyway, have dinner, a drink.
She hinted that we take her Cadillac (air conditioned, her hairdo, shoulder length, now platinum, the consistency of cotton candy, needed to be preserved for her 10:00 o’clock weather show).
* * *
Her somewhere ended up being the Rebel Lounge at The Berry, I drove. Her hand on my thigh, sitting in the middle of the front seat, Peggy's Dillards outfit—navy three button jacket, matching skirt, white blouse with collar tips that touched her shoulders, white high heels—didn't mesh with her image, but advertising is advertising. She lit a Parliament, and asked, “So what happened to Berry?”
“Got sick.”
“Sick? What kind of sick?”
“I don't know. Just sick. Flu. I don't know.”
“Did he like my show?”
“He didn't see it.”
“I thought you were going to watch in his office?”
A little strung out, “He saw some of it, okay?”
“Jack, don't be that way.” She rubbed my thigh. “What did he say?”
> “He liked it.” I closed my eyes, opened them. Still here and I almost rear-ended a pickup truck.
“Jesus,” she said. “You okay?”
“Super.”
“How about Joe, did he like it?”
I knew Joe so I told the truth. “No.”
“He didn't like it?”
Truth never works when you're dealing with real time. “He liked it. He liked it.”
“Okay, okay. Don't be so crabby.” After a second, she said, “What did you think?”
“About what?”
“Jack … my show.”
“We have to go over that national map again.”
“For what?”
“You screwed it up.”
“Picky picky picky.”
I lit a Salem.
She flipped ashes at the dash ashtray. “I thought it went smooth, first time and all.”
“That says it.”
“What's wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“You didn't like it.”
“It'll get better.”
“It was like we rehearsed it, wasn't it?”
“Don't worry about it.”
“Okay, I won't.” She pinched the inside of my thigh.
We entered The Berry lobby and went directly to the Rebel Lounge. The corner U booth open, she selected it, snuggled to the back, and patted the leather next to her.
I obliged the pat and noticed some of The Berry employees peeping at us from around a corner. I also noticed the bartender talked with his only customer, a young female with hair to the floor. The only other customers were a graying senior couple, picking at salads, at a table across from our booth. The Berry’s manager, Bernard (clammy, nervous, bloodshot eyes, yellow hair) came by and, lamenting the bad news about the Pheasant & Grouse scheduled shindig being cancelled, all those guests sent away, I thought he was going to cry. A few minutes later the newspaper photo lady showed up, wanted to take a picture of Peggy and me. I told her no.