Seymour G. Schwartz, professional though he was, could not muster the courage to look at P. Dudley Rhotten on the monitor. He bowed his head and covered his eyes with his fingers, hoping that if Rhotten glanced his way, he would get the impression that Schwartz was at prayer.
An amazing, wholly unexpected thing happened. If you weren’t looking at P. Dudley Rhotten, he sounded great. There was a certain quality to his voice, a timbre, an aura of utter sincerity that made him sound like a combination of Howard K. Smith, Dan Rather, and Walter Cronkite rolled into one. He gave the aural impression that the news had happened just as he had predicted it would, that he understood it and was passing his insights on to the viewers.
Seymour G. Schwartz listened to the news intently, something he seldom did, and found himself fascinated. It had to be the voice. Seymour G. Schwartz was well aware that P. Dudley Rhotten’s total knowledge of history, world events, and politics could be written inside a book of matches with a grease pencil and that he had no idea what he was reading before the microphone or what it could possibly mean.
Seymour G. Schwartz did some serious thinking. With money borrowed from Wladislaw Synjowlski, obtained from a pawnbroker on his watch, and with the help of P. Dudley Rhotten’s mother, Hermione, a company was formed bearing the new name, Don, that Seymour thought had more zing, zap, and powee than P. Dudley: Don Rhotten Productions, Inc.
The three, their fortunes now linked for fame or failure, set out for the big city and there encountered their first failures. Not only was there no recording studio in Council Bluffs, but the eye doctors and teeth cappers in that metropolis confessed that the cosmetic treatment of Mr. Rhotten was beyond them.
Undaunted, the trio rode the Grevhound bus into Chicago, where, in short order, Mr. Rhotten was equipped with a hairpiece to cover his somewhat knobby dome, caps for his teeth, and contact lenses for his eves. He was then led into a studio wearing his new Sears, Roebuck “Bouncy Boulevardier” suit, seated at a table, given a script, and filmed reading the news.
Wladislaw Synjowlski served as director and Mr. Schwartz as producer. Mr. Schwartz then rather skillfully spliced the film of Mr. Rhotten together with film of Messrs. Smith, Rather, and Cronkite as they read their news. After finding temporary employment for Wladislaw Synjowlski and Don Rhotten in the advertising business (they carried sandwich boards advertising Polish sausage up and down State Street), Mr. Schwartz boarded the bus for New York City.
For two weeks he failed to break down the barriers at any television network. Not only couldn’t he get any responsible television executive to look at his film, he couldn’t even get into the buildings. But if nothing else, Seymour G. Schwartz was tenacious, and he had both faith and imagination. It came to his attention that a very highly placed, very responsible Amalgamated Broadcasting System executive regularly sought a few hours relief from the press of his duties by going to the avant-garde cinema, specifically to the Bijoux Palace on 42nd Street, just west of Broadway.
With his last twenty dollars, Seymour G. Schwartz bribed the projectionist of the Bijoux Palace into slipping the Don Rhotten film into the program. What the rest of the audience, who had paid five dollars a head in the belief that they were to see a graphic, technicolor film of what transpires when two young ladies suffering from nymphomania meet two young men suffering from satyriasis in a motel room, thought when they got Howard K. Smith, Dan Rather, Walter Cronkite, and Don Rhotten instead has long been forgotten. What is remembered is that the ABS executive, placing duty above all, recognized talent when he saw it.
The rest is history. Don Rhotten was flown in from Chicago. He made his first telecast three days later. Within two weeks, ABS, which had traditionally run a poor fourth in the Neilsen and other ratings, had surged forward to capture third place and then second. A star, to coin a phrase, had been born.
Seymour G. Schwartz had only one remaining problem, how to get rid of Wladislaw Synjowlski. Big Bunny and Little Bunny, of course, has always been close, and their friendship had been strengthened as they marched up and down State Street in the icy winds carrying the Polish sausage sandwich boards, cursing Seymour G. Schwartz whenever they met.
This might, Seymour realized, give Wladislaw, or Little Bunny, the notion that he was entitled to a larger share of the action . . . which is to say, Don Rhotten Productions . . . than Schwartz thought was fair. Wladislaw would have to go
Wladislaw, however, recognizing a good thing himself when he saw it, didn’t want to go. It took some time before Seymour G. Schwartz came up with a way to get rid of him. There was at the time a dramatic daytime series, rudely known as a soap opera, in rating trouble. The series, “Life’s Little Agonies,” had been a huge and long-standing success, but then the husband-and-wife team who owned, wrote, and produced it had happened upon the works of Dr. Norman Vincent Peale, and that distinguished theologian’s works had turned around their lives and the series ratings.
They began to think positively. No harm was done, of course, when they gave up smoking and began to drink sassafras tea instead of 9-1 martinis. That was their business. But when the Power of Positive Thinking began to ooze into “Life’s Little Agonies,” that was something else again. There was simply no audience for a soap in which the heroine learned that she was not in the family way by her sister’s husband; or where the missing $60,000 from the Widows and Orphans Fund, which Cousin Fred was suspected of embezzling, turned out to be a simple accountant’s error.
Ratings dropped out of sight. The husband-and-wife team, when confronted with the situation at a high-level meeting, were unrepentant. Not only that, they were abandoning what they chose to call “Sodom on the Hudson” and television and were going to move to Bucks County, Pennsylvania, there to raise organic vegetables, breathe deeply, and practice positive thinking.
It wasn’t a case of wishing them “Farewell, and good riddance.” There remained six weeks of daytime drama to be written, filmed, and televised, which would capture a certain rating. Otherwise, ABS would be subject to payment of enormous damages to the various sponsors. The show had to go on.
But that, itself, proved a nearly insurmountable problem. No other soap producer would touch “Life’s Little Agonies” with a ten-foot pole. They had their reputations to think of, and the taint of being associated with a happy, happy, uplifting soap opera would be with them all their lives.
It was Seymour G. Schwartz who came to everybody’s rescue, including, he thought, his own.
He would buy out Wladislaw Synjowlski’s interest in Don Rhotten Productions. Wladislaw Synjowlski would use the money to buy out the husband-and-wife team. No one but Little Bunny thought there was any chance at all that “Life’s Little Agonies” could be saved, but that didn’t matter. The way the new contract was written, Wladislaw Synjowlski, not the network, would be responsible for the payment of penalties in case the ratings the show got dropped below the established figure.
Everybody was happy. The husband-and-wife team loaded their goats into their station wagon and left New York for Bucks County. ABS executives wrote each other long memoranda congratulating themselves for getting out of a bad situation. Seymour G. Schwartz patted himself on the back for getting rid of Wladislaw Synjowlski with such skill and finesse.
Everyone underestimated Little Bunny. He did some thinking over one weekend, and by Monday morning he was ready to roll. He simply cut the old story off dead, where it had hung at the conclusion of the last episode. A new start was necessary, and Wladislaw Synjowlski gave it to them.
Instead of the traditional theme song, “Edelweiss,” of “Life’s Little Agonies” being played on the studio organ, there was a fifteen-second trumpet fanfare.
“Wesley St. James Presents,” a dulcet-voiced announcer oozed, “Life’s Little Agonies, Part II.” There was then five seconds of silence, an enormous amount of time on a soap, and this was followed by a stomach-curdling moan of pain. The camera zoomed in on a hospital bed, on which a girl writhed in agony.
“Seventeen-year-old Martha-Jane,” the announcer intoned, “pregnant by her Aunt Lola’s alcoholic husband Anthony and seeking an abortion from friendly Dr. Grogan, whom she knows to be a secret homosexual, yesterday started out to have the illegal operation performed. Dr. Grogan’s boyfriend, the Reverend Stephens, mistaking Martha-Jane’s purpose in going to the Bonny Dell Motel and beside himself with jealousy, tried to run Martha-Jane off the highway in his car. He missed but caused a crash, in which Elizabeth Johnson, recently widowed mother of six, was seriously injured and may lose the use of the lower half of her body. Unnerved by the accident, Martha-Jane broke her solemn vow to Dr. Peterson, her Aunt Lola’s secret lover, never to take drugs again. As she resumed her journey to the motel, she lost consciousness and wrecked the car. As this episode opens, Dr. Grogan, called from the Emergency Ward where the Reverend Stephens had just been admitted following his attempted suicide over losing Dr. Grogan to Martha-Jane, must make the decision whether to amputate one or both of Martha-Jane’s legs. Listen now as Dr. Grogan approaches the helpless girl on the bed…”
Martha-Jane groaned again, loudly, piteously, chillingly.
Wesley St. James was off and running. By the end of the season, “Life’s Little Agonies” was back at the top of the ratings. And there were spinoffs: “The Globe Spinneth” traced the sad life of Aunt Lola’s alcoholic husband Anthony, in his constantly unsuccessful search for sobriety. “Guiding Torch” touched people’s hearts with the tribulations of a handsome, masculine man-of- the-cloth who was a little light on his feet. “One Life to Love” delved deeply into Dr. Peterson’s dalliances with his patients, and “All These Children” asked the question if a one-legged young mother could find true happiness sharing her life and cold-water flat with the fathers of two of her three illegitimate children.
Under these circumstances, it was certainly understandable that Wesley St. James was a little miffed when he was not only not recognized by Don Rhotten’s flunkies but mistaken for one of the common herd out there in television land.
Chapter Four
Wesley St. James, glowering ferociously at Don Rhotten’s junior assistant associate executive producers, passed through the powder-blue door with the gold star and the words DON RHOTTEN and entered the sanctum sanctorum of television journalism’s most beloved young sage.
Mr. Rhotten, wig, caps, and contacts in place and shepherded by Mr. Seymour G. Schwartz and two public relations experts, was in the process of granting an interview to a member of the printed media. This was, of course, a singular honor and privilege, and the printed media person was suitably impressed. Mr. Schwartz and the public relations men had had the foresight to buy the printed media person lunch before interview time and had succeeded in getting the gentleman quite plastered.
Just in case the printed media person’s notes should be incomplete or a bit illegible, the public relations people had thoughtfully prepared a neatly typewritten transcript, perfectly suitable for use, in which Mr. Rhotten would come across as a thoughtful practitioner of his profession and dedicated to the highest principles of journalism, and the printed media person had asked questions he hadn’t even thought of.
Some strange noises were heard. First a “Cheep, cheep, cheep” chirping sound, followed by a dull, flat crack, as if someone had stamped his feet on the floor. The printed media person shook his head to focus his eyes. He looked at Don Rhotten. A wide smile was now on his normally solemn face.
The “Cheep, cheep, cheep, slam, slam” sequence of sounds was repeated. Then, beaming with joy, Don Rhotten rose from behind his rosewood desk, where he had just discoursed at length on the problems France was having with its atomic power program.
He now had his elbows at his sides, his arms folded upward with the hands balled into fists under his chin. As the printed media person watched, Mr. Rhotten curled his upper lip up over his upper teeth, concealed his lower teeth with his lower lip, went “Cheep, cheep, cheep,” and then jumped twice into the air, both feet at once, each time slamming them together onto the floor. “Don-Baby, I’ve asked you. . . .”
“Shut up, Seymour,” Don Rhotten snarled. “You’ve always been a spoilsport!”
From behind the printed media person, a strange apparition appeared. It was a small human being with a blond Afro and a blue Mao-Nehru jacket with gold buttons, and it, too, had its arms folded up, its fists balled under its chin. It bounded into the room in little jumps, both feet in the air at once, making “Cheep, cheep, cheep” noises from behind exposed teeth.
“Cheep, cheep, cheep,” Don Rhotten went again. He bounced into the center of the room, his feet going slam, slam, slam on the thick carpet.
“Hi, there, Big Bunny!” the strange apparition in the blond Afro chirped.
“Hello, Little Bunny!” Don Rhotten replied, jumping up and down. “How’s things in the briar patch?”
“Uncle Ralph,” the little man said, jumping over to him and kissing him wetly on the forehead, “Little Bunny’s glad to see you, too!”
Seymour, while he struggled to escape Little Bunny’s affectionate embrace, gestured to the public relations men to get the printed media person out of the room. He shuddered at the thought of having it bandied about in the print media—as unimportant as that was—that Don Rhotten had been seen bouncing around his dressing suite making like a bunny rabbit. Someone just might read it. My God, what Howard K. Smith could make of it, if he found out, in those snide broadcast-closing remarks of his!
Getting rid of the reporter was somewhat easier than getting rid of Little Bunny. Wesley St. James was perfectly willing to admit (in private, of course) that he owed his success, the private jet, the two Rolls-Royces, all of it, to Seymour G. Schwartz’s wisdom and foresight. If Seymour hadn’t set him up to take over “Life’s Little Agonies,” if Seymour hadn’t shown his faith in him, why he still might be here as nothing more than a partner in Don Rhotten Productions, dragging down no more than a third of the $185,000 Rhotten got from ABS.
He was constantly showing his appreciation to Seymour. There had been gold watches, a sailboat, and, most valuable, at least six signed, full-color Bachrach photographs of Wesley St. James, all inscribed something like this: “FOR SEYMOUR G. SCHWARTZ, WHO MADE ME WHAT I AM TODAY, FROM HIS GRATEFUL PAL, LITTLE BUNNY.”
Seymour G. Schwartz quite naturally loathed and despised Wesley St. James because of the presents. He was completely convinced that the gold watches, the sailboat, and the photographs had been St. James’ exquisitely cruel means of getting back at him for having arranged for him and Don to parade up and down State Street in Chicago with the Polish sausage advertisements and a means to gloat over him. It was common knowledge in the television industry that Wesley St. James Productions (not to mention St. James’ Games, which was a whole new ball of wax) made him the highest-paid producer in television. Wesley St. James had five producers who made more money than ABS paid Don Rhotten, and all Seymour had was a large piece of Don Rhotten.
With the reporter gone, there was no need for the wig, the caps, and the contacts, so off they came.
“Gee,” Wesley St. James said, “it’s just like old times, isn’t it?”
“Not quite, Wesley,” Seymour G. Schwartz said, oozing as much charm as he was able.
“Sure, it is,” Wesley St. James said. “Just the three of us, Big Bunny, Little Bunny, and lovable Uncle Ralph alone against the world.”
“But you’re not really Little Bunny anymore, Wesley,” Seymour G. Schwartz patiently explained. “You’re Wesley St. James, the Napoleon of the so . . . daytime dramas.”
“That’s right,” Wesley St. James admitted.
“And Dudley isn’t Big Bunny anymore,” Seymour went on. “He’s Don now, Don Rhotten, America’s most beloved young television sage.”
“You’re still Seymour G. Schwartz, though,” Wesley St. James said. “Always looking for the black lining in every silver cloud.”
“All I’m suggesting, Wesley,” Seymour
said, “is that it might be bad for Don’s image if somebody saw the two of you doing the bunny bit.”
“Don’t knock that bunny bit,” Wesley St. James snarled. “If it wasn’t for Don and me, you wouldn’t have made it as Uncle Ralph. You really looked weird in that wig and overalls, Seymour. More than one sweet little kid wet his pants in terror when you grabbed him.”
“That only happened twice, Wesley,” Seymour said, stung to the quick, “and you know it.”
“Big Bunny and me were the stars of the show, Seymour. You were just the straight man,” Little Bunny said. Don Rhotten nodded his agreement.
Seymour G. Schwartz knew that it was time to change the subject. Little Bunny had acquired a reputation, as Wesley St. James, as a man who should not be crossed.
“You’re right, Little Bunny,” he said, fixing a smile on his face. “So what brings you to Fun City?”
Litde Bunny didn’t reply for a moment. Then he smiled rather shyly. “I wanted to see you guys,” he said. “I got a little lonely.”
“Awww,” Don Rhotten said, touched. “And we missed you, too, didn’t we, Uncle Ralph?”
“We sure did,” Seymour said. He looked nauseated.
“I brought you guys a little something,” Little Bunny said. He reached inside his powder-blue Mao-Nehru jacket and came out with two small packages.
“For me?” Don Rhotten said. “Oh, you didn’t have to do that, Little Bunny!”
“I know I didn’t have to, dummy,” Little Bunny said. “I wanted to.” He handed one package to each of them.
MASH 08 MASH Goes to Hollywood Page 4