The Ringer

by Bill Scheft

  (“Ba hah-hah”)

  “I’m a little tired, a little poofed by the end of the week, so my friend, my good friend, my brother-in-law, my next-door neighbor, my common-law wife,

  (“HAH!”)

  “College Boy stops by and helps out Dr. Blob and Carl, who stopped trying to laugh and suck up to me in 1981 on the advice of their union shop steward. Isn’t that right, boys?”

  “I’m sorry, Dan, did you say something?”

  (Snort)

  “Hey, Danny, keep it down, we’re trying to read over here.”

  (“HAH! ha-HAH! Ah ha ha ha…”)

  “I’m gonna guess what you’re reading is not a rave review of Tuesday’s sketch about Mayor Dinkins. What was it called?”

  “Man-Dinko.”

  “Bravo. Could you boys maybe get a few more people writing me hate mail? Good Lord, do I look like David Duke?”

  (“Hah!”)

  “I don’t know. Take off the sheet.”

  (“Bah-HAHHAH!”)

  “Good one, Carl. Nice going. How to wait till quarter of ten on Friday. You know, a lot of people say David Duke still has ties with the Ku Klux Klan, but he’s changed. Now, he has a much higher thread count….

  (“heh”)

  “Higher thread count.

  (“Whoa-ha ha HAH! Eh-hee, hee heeeee!”)

  “Can I continue? So, I’m watching a tape of the Today Show and I figured why I never made it as a serious broadcaster on television. Radio, pfft, of course, radio. Come on, who we kidding? What’s the sense talking? Radio, I’m Brando. And we’re talking Streetcar Brando, Waterfront Brando, not that landmass that was in The Freshman last year. But television? I had some shots, you may have heard me refer to them from time to time.”

  “Jesus.”

  “That’s enough, Blob. Anyway, I had some shots, but nothing happened. I blamed my management, the networks, the fabric of society, general envy. By the way, that was one of my favorite Richard Widmark World War II films, General Envy. Richard Widmark, Dan Duryea as the wise-guy sergeant, Millie Perkins as Anne Frank…

  (“Hah hah hah. Hee-hee, hee-hee.”)

  “Anyway, I never really understood why. And I’m watching the Today Show, and it hit me. I finally figured out why I never made it on television. I have no gums.”

  “You have gums.”

  “No, I’m talking the big TV broadcaster gums. Like Katie Couric…

  (“Jesus-ahaHAH!”)

  “Have you seen these things? Have you seen them? Look what I’m asking. Come on. It looks like she’s got a quarter-pound of Boar’s Head ham wedged up there….

  (“HAH-ee-hahhaha”)

  “I never noticed her gums.”

  “What are you, nuts, Carl? Now, as we all know, and people have taken great pains to point out, I am not the best looking man in New York.”

  “You’re not the best looking man in this room.”

  (“hah-HAH!”)

  “Well, that’s only because it’s Friday and College Boy’s here….

  (“Sheesh, hah.”)

  “And Katie Couric couldn’t be cuter. Cute like a puppy. As a matter of fact, I’m sure she has some puppy in her…. There’s the teeth, which are fine, and then like a half-acre of slick, pinkish meat, which is stopped only by her nose. Don’t get me wrong, it’s attractive.

  (“Da-HAH-ha!”)

  “Do you remember Pinkish Meat? You’re a little young, College Boy, but he played alto sax on the original version of Brubeck’s ‘Take Five’….

  (“Ha-HAH! ‘Take Four,’ right? Hah!”)

  “Hee, hee! College Boy! Nicely done. That would have worked so much better if your mike had been on….

  (“Heh heh-HAH!”)

  “I’m telling you, I really think I’m on to something here. Show some of them gums, things start to happen for you in that business. Gums and, of course, a huge head.

  (“Hah hah heh-ha.”)

  “So that’s my problem. My gums aren’t big enough. And I’m not corrupt.”

  “Enough.”

  “What?”

  “Not corrupt enough, Dan.”

  “Carl, don’t make me turn College Boy’s mike on….

  (“Yeah!”)

  “See what I did there? I threatened you. I have to do more of that, on a bigger scale. I have to do more threatening—Is it do more threatening or be more threatening? But I’m not good at this. As you know, I’m an extremely private man who shares a modest life with my two dogs, Zinfandel and Zima….

  (“Hah-HAH-hahaha.”)

  “I work a blistering twenty-hour week here at the station, and that’s with only twelve weeks off, mind you, and the rest of the time is devoted to my two charities, Big Cousin, for boys who don’t have a cousin, and Veal on Wheels.

  (“hahahahahahahahaha…”)

  “What I’m saying, and if you follow what I’m saying, call in and explain it to me, is that I need some tips on how to become really corrupt. Just a complete, greasy sleazebag with his hand in everyone’s pocket.”

  “How is that going to help you make it in television?”

  “Good point, Carl. There’s nobody like that in television. What was I thinking?

  (“Ah-hah! HAH-HAH, ha!”)

  “But I’ve really got to step this thing up. Like I said, I need some tips. And I’m willing to ask for help. Who’s the most corrupt person in New York?”

  “Gotti?”

  “Well, ahem, let’s not go nuts here, Carl. Just because a man makes ten billion dollars a year from one 1,500-square foot plumbing supply warehouse in Queens, that does not necessarily make him corrupt….

  (“Hah heh heh. What about The Dirt King?”)

  “The what? The Dirt King? Did you say The Dirt King? Who is this guy?

  (“He controls—”)

  “Turn on his mike!”

  “He controls, he controls the all the dirt in Central Park. If you want a hole filled in on one of the fields, you have to pay him.”

  “Come on.”

  “And that’s to get the good dirt, which he has locked up in different locations.”

  “Is he with the Parks Department?”

  “No, the Parks Department reports to him.”

  “So, he’s with the city government.”

  “No, he’s just The Dirt King.”

  “I think we may have a winner here. The Dirt King.”

  “Hey, what about Man-Dinko?”

  “Dr. Blob, there’s still time to fax that joke over to K-Rock before Howard goes off the air….

  (“Dah-HAH-HAHH!”)

  “Just attach it to the end of your résumé.”

  (“Hahahahahaha” clap clap clap, clap clap clap)

  “Is this what you mean by doing more threatening, Dan?”

  (“HAH hah-HAH!”)

  “I think I’m really on to something here. I do this thing, where I’m the Corrupt Guy, for a couple of months. Okay, a year. Then, when I have enough money—you see where I’m going with this. And if you see where I’m going with this, call in and explain it to me—when I have enough money, I fly down to Mexico and get a gum job.”

  (“Hah hah HAH hah HAH HAH!”)

  “I think you can still get a gum job in Times Square for twenty bucks.”

  (“Bah-HAH!”)

  “Carl, in the Yellow Pages, under ‘stations, radio,’ I’ll need the fax number at K-Rock….

  (“Heh heh HA-heh”)

  “Does The Dirt King have a name?”

  “Yeah. Ern—”

  “What? Commercials, then news? Are we coming back? No? Tell Pretty Pipes, what’s his name, Larry?”

  “Jason.”

  “Tell Jason to hang on for a few minutes. What do you mean no? Then take it out of Sportsphone Boy’s show, what’s his name, Larry?”

  “Steve.”

  “Right, Steve. I can’t believe it’s the first original thing we’ve done here in five years, The Dirt King, and we’ve got to go. Just give us his name, College
Boy.

  (“Ern—”)

  “TURN ON HIS GODDAMN MIKE! What? We’re hopelessly late? This blows. Five seconds? This is Dan Drake on WLLS, Wheels-102. See you Monday. Stay tuned for pinheads….”

  (“HAH!—”)

  “Is this fucking guy for real?”

  “The Dirt King?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Yeah, he’s a real guy.”

  College Boy walked down the corridor at WLLS with Dan Drake, trying not to watch everyone scurrying to get out of their way.

  “And what’s his name?”

  “Ernest Giovia. Ernie G.”

  “Can we get him on the show?”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  “Would it kill you to ask him?”

  “Danny, I don’t know when I’ll see him, and besides that, he’s a complete asshole. If I said, ‘Hey, Ernie, Dan Drake wants you to come on his morning show. How about it?’ He’d say, ‘Lemme ay-ask you someding. What size pants do you wear?’ And I’d say why, and he’d say, ‘I wanna know where you get your balls big enough to ay-ask me someding like that. When you tooawk to me, you’re either asking for dirt or asking for a rake up you ass. If you’re asking for dirt, it’s five hundred dollars. The rake is free.’”

  “Seriously?”

  “I heard him say this like five years ago to a friend of mine who asked him if he was going to put down some foul lines before July 4.”

  “Well, you gotta do this guy.”

  “The Dirt King.”

  “Yeah, with that voice.”

  “When? Next Friday?”

  “No, Monday.”

  “I got ball Monday morning.”

  “What time?”

  “Ah, ah, nine.”

  “You’re lying. I’ll get you out of here by eight-thirty. But you’ve got to be here by five-thirty so I can look at the script.”

  “What script?”

  “Just give me two pages of stuff this guy says, like the rake up the ass thing, and questions for me. No more than two-three pages.”

  “Danny, I can’t write.”

  “You think any of us can? It’s not writing, it’s radio. ‘Man-Dinko.’ You think that was writing? ‘Let me fill your pothole with my mayoral probe.’/ ‘Oh, Man-Dinko…’ I swear, I’m going to kill Carl and Blob. That’s the kind of crap you come up with in college after you’ve run out of bong water to drink. Man-Dinko. Give me a break. Once a week, I go through this shit with them. ‘Oooh, Dan, this bit is great. It’s edgy stuff.’ Okay, I say. You boys are the producers. If you really think it’s funny and clever, go nuts, but this time you’re taking the call from the station manager. You’re answering the mail. You’re taking responsibility. ‘Yeah, yeah. Sure, Dan.’ They finish putting the thing on cart thirty seconds before we go on, I don’t get to hear it, and I have to trust them. I mean, twelve years we’ve been doing this show. So, I trust them. They throw it to me. ‘And now here’s our Wimbledon preview,’ I say, and then it’s two full minutes of Monica Seles grunting on the toilet. Carl and Blob are back in Nutley by eleven, and I’m here till five, apologizing and trying not to get sued. So, that’s the kind of writing that goes on here. Think you’re up to it?”

  “Really? Monica Seles grunting on the toilet?”

  “I’ve never been more proud.”

  “Christ, Danny, I don’t know.”

  “College Boy, I don’t want to have to bring this up, which means it’s the next thing I’ll say.”

  “Not the charity softball thing….”

  “No.”

  “Good.”

  “But do you remember the charity softball thing?”

  “No.”

  “When I saw you playing for the WABC guys.”

  “And I wasn’t supposed to be playing for them.”

  “And you weren’t supposed to be playing for them. And you hit those two bombs, even though you weren’t supposed to be playing for those pricks. And I never said anything.”

  “Danny, you never shut up the whole game.”

  “What did I say?”

  “‘Isn’t José Canseco late for his other game? I thought Curtis Sliwa was just a singles hitter. Isn’t Davey Johnson going to be angry at you? Who’s your favorite idol besides yourself?’ Shit like that.”

  “Well, it was all for charity.”

  “Meanwhile,” College Boy played what he thought was a good card, “you’ve completely forgotten about the last inning.”

  “My triple?”

  “Your shallow pop fly that I pretended to lose in the sun so you could run the bases.”

  “And you ran behind me trying so hard to tag me.”

  “But I just wasn’t fast enough, was I, Danny?”

  “Eat me, College Boy.”

  “Speaking of which, who gave you the banana after your blood sugar dropped off the table from running the bases?”

  “So, I owe you now?”

  “No, the once a week thing here is enough.”

  “Yeah, sorry to pull you out of the park, the only place you’re comfortable.”

  Ugh, he would have said. But instead: “So, you want two pages of stuff this guy, The Dirt King, has said?”

  “Jesus, just make up some shit, and I’ll fix it here. Just get it to me a half hour before we go on. Can you stop thinking about yourself and help me out here a little? Would it kill you? Would it fucking kill you?”

  “Is there any money?”

  “You’re trying to fuck me, aren’t you, College Boy?”

  “No, Dan, I’m not trying to fuck you. But there’s a lot of people here who’d like to see you go down.”

  “AH-HAH! HEE-heeeeeee! Very funny. Like to see me go down. What a complete lunatic I am. Hah! Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you. Hey, where you going?”

  “I gotta do laundry.”

  “I remember doing laundry.”

  (“Heh heh heh…”)

  7

  So this was what they meant by slowing down. You stare at a six-inch TV, read New York Magazine when you specifically asked for the New Yorker, and three times a day walk numbly up and down a too-short corridor wearing twenty-year-old loafers with no backs and a cotton tunic incapable of closure, like you’re rehearsing for some bizarre Commencement. One hand coaxes the light metal pole on wheels that holds your catheter bag. The other hand, with no pocket to hide in, looks for something to do. Like the rest of you.

  He shouldn’t have yelled at the nephew. But why didn’t the kid shave? How long could it take to shave? And maybe the line “Put on a coat and tie when you come to see me” was a little excessive. No. Maybe the line after that, “Have a little class. Stop cutting corners. You’ve been doing that for years and people are beginning to talk.” Maybe that was excessive.

  Thirteen days without a drink. Pretty damn good. Two days since the large black nurse quit. Good. He was well rid of her. She was okay at first, but as is the case with service people, once you ask them to actually do something, that’s when the trouble starts. One thing. Asked her to do one thing. An errand. Ten minutes. She couldn’t do it. Not allowed. Who’s she working for anyway? And where does it say “No liquor allowed”?

  And what was with that enormous duffel bag the nephew had? Well, at least he got off a good line there: “I see you got your orders. When do you ship out?” Hey, wait a minute. How many bottles could he fit in that duffel bag? Who needed the black woman anyway? The nephew would come through for him. The kid always did. Now, if only he’d come back with the duffel bag. If only he’d come back, period. Shouldn’t have yelled at the nephew. Why had he done that?

  His prostate swelled some more. This time with justified indignation.

  The kid should know better. He let it slide the first two visits. Wednesday, the kid shows up at nine-thirty, nine-thirty at night, sweaty, wearing an Angels cap. Unshaven. With that duffel bag. Nobody told him he was coming. Nobody. You’d think he would have called. So, he let that go. Played the noble host. Would have offe
red the kid a drink, but he had nothing around. The large black woman. What was her name? Gertie? No, Sadie. There was nothing around to offer the kid because Sadie wouldn’t run one errand for him. Ten minutes. Not allowed. Well, that’s the world today. No real service people. You want Gertie or Hattie, you get Sadie. He was well rid of her. He’d yelled at her, too. Something like, “Stop extorting me with that bedpan and give me some answers!” She had it coming. Like the kid. Came by yesterday morning with croissants and marmalade. Sure, those you can bring in. He didn’t say anything about the Angels cap, or that he kept calling him “Uncle Mort.” Or that he couldn’t stay for lunch. The kid had an audition.

  The kid. He had to stop calling him the kid. He had to be in his thirties by now. Dottie’s kid. Harvey. He never called him Harvey. Okay, once. Years ago, at P. J. Moriarty’s, when the kid first came to New York. They were having the carrot salad, and he said, “Harvey, see if you could use your powers of urban diplomacy to get us some dressing.” And the kid gave him a look, and then a big, “Sure, Uncle Mort.” Really leaned into the “uncle” part, too, like a stroke on the varsity eight. That look he figured out immediately. That was the “don’t call me Harvey” look. He caught it. Pretty good for a guy who’d never had any children. Pretty damn good. And he was right. “Do me a favor. Drop the ‘uncle’ crap, kid. You’re in New York,” he said when the kid came back with the waiter and the dressing. That’s when the kid said nobody called him Harvey. And that’s when they made the deal. No “Uncle Mort” for no “Harvey.” Even up. If there was a third party introduction involved, okay. What could you do? But the deal. That they stuck to. When the kid called him, he’d say, “Hi, Mort. It’s your sister Dottie’s kid.” When he called, it was “Mort Spell here. Is this Dottie’s kid?” Or “Is that you, doctor?” Or “Am I speaking with the Eastern Seaboard’s number one expert on the AFC Central?” Or “Is this the Sid Fernandez Weight-Loss Clinic?”

  When they were together, they didn’t call each other anything. Just went back and forth. Laughs and drinks and sports talk and carrot salad. Not like Alistair Cooke. Everything with him was, “Well, you know, Morton….” Like he’d taken a one-day course in how to keep someone’s attention. There was nobody else at the goddamn table! Please. Alistair Cooke. Another one who hadn’t called. Well, he was well rid of him, too.