Not Gonna Happen

by Adam Carter

  Corsac knew he himself had struck that point a long time ago. He could even pinpoint the exact time and date but really didn’t like to talk about it.

  He punched a few buttons on the microwave and after a couple of minutes was sitting down in front of the TV with his food. He had never been one of those people who became fascinated with the way the food could go in cold and come out piping hot in so short a time, with the inside of the oven still not being overly hot. Nor did he worry about the radiation being pumped through his food. All he thought about microwaves, really, was that they were a means to an end. He had tried one time introducing a microwave sketch to his routine on stage but it hadn’t worked out. He’d tried to relate it to Buck Rogers, that when you stopped to think about it, a microwave oven was really a wonder, but that years ago people probably said the same thing about regular ovens and in years to come would say the same thing about whatever oven came next. He had dropped it because it wasn’t funny and no matter how much he played with it he simply could not make it work.

  He knew why it wasn’t working, of course. Comedy came from the heart. If he didn’t believe in what he was saying, he couldn’t make it funny. That was why comedians would always stand there complaining about the state of the world: be it the youth of today, the elderly of today, politics or whatever. Comedians used the stage as a platform for their own venting, which explained why certain comedians told racist jokes. It also explained why programmes like One Foot in the Grave had been so successful. It was a format every viewer, old or young, could relate to.

  But Jack Corsac didn’t care about microwave ovens, didn’t believe they were worthy of his attention, for they were just a utilitarian means to an ends. And that was why he couldn’t make them funny.

  He realised he was halfway through his meal without even having noticed what it was he was eating and that he was halfway through his programme without having noticed what he was watching. He was operating on autopilot, which meant he was either very tired or very bored, or possibly even both.

  He thought about Liz.

  In fact, he could understand why Marie had started her classes again. She had stopped when money was tight, but now he was working on TV they had a lot more disposable capital. She should enjoy it, there was no reason for her not to, and Corsac was glad his wife was finally able to do what she wanted with her life. Her paintings had always been special to her, and selling one gave her a real buzz, but she also liked to associate with others who thought along the same wavelength. Corsac was glad she could at last return to that sort of life. He was done holding her back.

  The programme he was watching ended and the adverts came on. Corsac had always found it amusing that the BBC claimed not to have adverts, yet their programme adverts lasted just as long as the commercial break on the other channels. Sure, they didn’t break their programmes up for the adverts, but there was still more than enough time between programmes to go and make a cup of tea. Marie always called him in to watch something and he’d shout back, “It’s OK, we’ve got the adverts yet.” To which her reply would always (predictably) be, “It’s the BBC, there are no adverts.”

  Yeah, right.

  And then he was watching himself. He had been so caught up in his mental wanderings that he had not even noticed the theme music for his own show. In fact, he had caught so little of it beforehand that he hadn’t even heard it enough to be able to put the music to memory. He found himself oddly enthralled by the show, by his own performance as he introduced the contestants, and especially by Liz in her frankly absurd and morally questionable costume.

  It was disturbing watching himself, bordering upon Narcissistic, yet he was enraptured and without even knowing was mouthing along to his own lines.

  “Saw a magazine advertised last night,” he was saying on the screen. “It said ... well, not the magazine obviously since magazines don’t speak. But the voice-over man said the magazine had an interview with George Someone-or-other from one of those Celebrity Island things. Now, am I the only one who finds that odd? For someone to be on a celebrity show, surely they have to be a celebrity, but now he’s most famous for being on the show he shouldn’t have been on unless he was famous to begin with.

  “Anyway, on with our show now, I think.”

  Corsac smiled to himself as he watched the pyramid take centre stage on the screen. He had written the joke himself and, like all the best jokes, it was true. He had seen that very advert the night before and had found it ludicrous. He thought back to when Louise had suggested to him a lifetime ago now that he should go on one of those himself. How glad he was now to have turned that down, to have had the willpower to get off his backside and do something for himself instead.

  As any comedian would tell you, the best jokes were the truthful ones, because those were the ones people at home could relate to the most. Benny Hill quite famously used to sit in a café and simply watch people go by, getting a lot of his material through this simple but highly effective means.

  Corsac was not above using this method as well.

  He continued to mouth as he watched, until the figure on the screen said something peculiar. It was a joke about penguins, in relation to something one of the contestants had said, and it got a laugh. “I don’t remember that,” Corsac at home muttered, and it was true. He didn’t like to play the “getting old” card again, but he was sure his memory was going. Or perhaps they had just been recording far too many of these shows in one week and his mind was failing to properly catch up.

  Either way, the joke hadn’t been too bad, although even now he’d forgotten it.

  The programme buzzed along merrily and Corsac found himself surprised when the final came and went. He knew how it was going to turn out, of course: it would have been pretty difficult to forget that part of things at least. The woman in the final didn’t walk away with much, pittance really compared with how much similar shows were offering, and Corsac cast his mind back to what Liz had been saying earlier. If they moved to prime time it would benefit them all, contestants included.

  Still, he had no idea how far away from reality this was, if even it would become reality at all.

  He thought about what Louise had said, about talking to Sam, and decided once the credits had rolled he would do just that. Just as Corsac on TV was saying goodnight (in the daytime as usual) the phone rang and the Corsac at home answered it. It was Castle, which was unusual in and of itself. It seemed Castle had something important he needed to talk with him about and no it couldn’t wait. As Corsac set down the receiver he felt himself in two minds. Sam had got him the job, which made her his agent, surely. His business was no longer being handled by Crotcher and he could hardly call Crotcher up now and ask him to accompany him to the set. Somehow Corsac suspected Castle wanted to talk to him about the move to prime time, he just knew it, and if that was the case he would have to have his agent present.

  He found himself dialling Sam’s number before he could stop himself. The best decisions were made on the spur of the moment; and so too of course the worst mistakes.

  Or would that be best mistakes? Corsac had never understood why there were books with titles like Britain’s Worst Criminals. Surely if they were good at what they did, they could hardly be called the worst criminals. Surely a book about the country’s worst criminals would contain accounts of people who were run over by their own getaway car (which had happened). Similarly the worst mistakes would be the ones which could be corrected with a simple apology, while a glorious mistake would go down in history.

  “Hello?”

  “Ah, uh, Sam?”

  “Yeah, Dad. Course it’s me. You did mean to phone me didn’t you?”

  “Sorry, million miles away.”

  “Thinking about what?”

  “Mistakes. Correcting mistakes.”

  He could almost hear his daughter smile on the other end. “Lou told you to phone me, didn’t she?”

  “Uh, well actually she did, yes.”

>   “Don’t worry about it. You were never very good with words, Dad. Despite being able to get on stage and ad-lib like a bluffing poker player.”

  “That’s good. I might use that.”

  “Knock yourself out.”

  “Sam, I need your help.”

  “Oh. Thought you were phoning just to say hi.”

  “I was. I was, but then I got a phone call from the executive guy at work and now I need help.”

  Now he could hear a frown. “OK, you’ve confused me.”

  “I think we’re moving to prime time.”

  “Really? Wow, Dad, that’s great.”

  “And I need you with me. I need you to make sure I don’t get gypped.”

  There was a pause on the other end. “You need me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll drop by and pick you up, we can head to the set together.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “No, I mean it,” Corsac said awkwardly. “Sam, I know I haven’t always, I don’t know, but you know?”

  Sam laughed. It was a short but sincere sound. “I know, Dad. See ya in ten.”

  She made it to Corsac’s house in little over five minutes. He left a note for Marie, explaining where he’d gone and that he was with Sam, and had gone out to meet his daughter. She drove carefully, as always, and didn’t pry into his business, equally as always. The problem with Corsac and his eldest daughter had always been that she was too afraid to pry and he was too afraid to supply. It made for a complete stand-off in their relationship, a stand-off which had lasted well into Sam’s adulthood. While Louise was always asking questions, even from an early age, Sam had always tried to solve her problems by herself. And, to his eternal shame, her father had let her. It made for a tense relationship now she was grown up. They both hoped this programme, Deadlock, would break down some of those boundaries for them. Of course, neither had the courage to actually come out and voice their hope aloud.

  “Money’d be good,” Sam said as she drove.

  “If we move time slot? Yeah, I know. Liz heard the rumour before I did, I didn’t know what to think.”

  Sam pulled a face. “Still not sure about that one.”

  “I take it you’ve been talking to Lou.”

  “Lou doesn’t like her. Don’t think I ever met her, so I can’t say anything.”

  “Then don’t.”

  Sam glanced at him. “No need to get defensive, Dad, I was just saying I didn’t have an opinion.”

  Corsac rubbed between his eyes with thumb and forefinger. “I know you were, I’m sorry, Sam. Just tired, I guess.”

  “Getting old.”

  He laughed. “The one thing Liz keeps telling me I’m not.”

  “Nice to see you’ve made a new friend. We’re here.” Sam stopped the car and shut off the engine. She paused, her hand on the fastener for her seat belt. “Dad, I just wanted to say how glad I am you’re doing this.”

  “The game show?”

  “It’s changed you. It’s ... I don’t know, you have a glow about you you’ve not had for a long time. It’s nice.”

  Corsac did not know how to answer. “I’m glad too,” he finally said, if a little stupidly. “And I’m glad you’re glad.”

  “And I’m glad you’re glad I’m glad.”

  Corsac laughed. In fact, both Corsacs laughed. “Come on,” he said at last, opening the door. “I think I’m in for some good news.”

  Sam was just pleased she would be standing there to share it with him.

  They passed Diana Troupe on the way in. Corsac would have introduced her to Sam but Troupe was in a palaver about something and he chose instead to steer clear. They headed for Castle’s office, even though Sam seemed genuinely interested in stealing glances at the set. “That’s where the magic happens,” Corsac explained briefly as they walked past.

  “Magic happens in the cheque, Dad,” Sam corrected him.

  “Strange how we still talk about cheques or pay-packets when in this day and age everything’s done directly through the bank.”

  They arrived at Castle’s office to find the man in deep contemplation. He was seated in the rather untidy room, staring vacantly at the wall, and for a moment Corsac actually thought he was dead. Suddenly his eyes snapped towards the two of them and Castle said, “Corsac, good. Come in. Hello? Yes?”

  These last two words were spoken, rather harshly, to Sam.

  “My daughter, Sam,” Corsac explained.

  “Could be Father Christmas’s second niece twice removed for all I care. What’s she doing here?”

  “I’m also,” Sam put in with her haughtiest voice possible, “Mr Corsac’s agent.”

  “Oh,” Castle said, his expression turning marginally less sour. “Well, come in, come in. Close the door.” Once this was done and the two of them had taken a seat, Castle called out for coffee. When it came, he poured himself a generous cup. He offered coffee to both his guests, who accepted purely out of politeness. Neither as a rule drank coffee, but it was the only drink available, and Castle was inhaling it as though it was an endangered species. “Sorry about that,” he said after his second cup was drained and was even now being refilled. “Having a bad day, you know how it is. So, you’re Jack’s youngest?”

  “Eldest,” Sam said. If that was an attempt at flattery, it was as weak as Castle’s coffee was strong.

  “Well, nice to meet you, nice to meet you.” Castle spoke as a man short on time, but whose mind was presently elsewhere. Whatever had been occupying his thoughts when they had entered, it was certainly something approaching painful. “Jack, you really thought to bring your agent, or is Sam here as your daughter?”

  “As his agent,” Sam answered for him. “We believe you have some important news, Mr Castle.”

  “News? Yeah, news.”

  “We’re moving to prime time, right?” Corsac asked. Sam wished he had not said that, but what was done was done. She did not react to the question but instead kept her eyes upon Castle. She had learned a couple of poker techniques from her father, even though she didn’t play herself. Apparently one of the tricks of poker was to carefully watch the other players. As soon as the cards were dealt, most players would look at their hand. What they should have been doing was looking at everyone else’s reactions looking at their hands. Presently, Sam was watching Castle for any reaction at all, anything which might give the man away. She saw nothing but a flustered, worried man who may not even have heard the question at all.

  “We got a lawsuit filed against us,” Castle announced.

  “We what?” Corsac asked.

  “Lawsuit’s going to fall through,” Castle said. “That’s what we hire vampires for. But someone took umbrage at one of your jokes.”

  “One of my jokes?”

  “Got it around here somewhere,” Castle said, shuffling papers. “No idea where. But anyway, the joke’s not important. Someone didn’t like the content, the context, whatever. Thought it infringed on their copyright or something.”

  “Infringed on ...” Sam was almost speechless. “How can you copyright a joke?”

  “No idea,” Castle said. “But this guy reckoned you could copyright a style.”

  “Is that true?” Sam asked her father.

  Corsac shrugged. “No idea. Is it?” he asked Castle.

  “Damned if I know. Don’t much care either; not my place to sort it out.”

  “Look,” Sam said. “Mr Castle, if the joke was in breach of copyright, you can’t blame my client for using it. The fault, if any fault there is, would lie with the editors of the show, or with the director.”

  Castle half smiled at her and said to Corsac. “She’s good, isn’t she?”

  “She’s right as well,” Corsac replied hopefully.

  “Damned if I know,” Castle said again. “It’s what the vampires are paid to sort out.”

  “All right,” Sam said. “Now I’m confused. You don’t seem to have brought my fathe
r here to try to pin this on him or sack him or anything.”

  “Sack him?” Castle asked, and for the first time since she had met him did Sam have the impression she really now had his attention. “Why would I want to sack him? On account of some idiot trying to cash in on your father’s success? Nah, we’ll get rid of him. Pay him off maybe; hell, I’d shoot him before we got rid of Jack Corsac. Joke that, by the way. Anyway, no, there’s no issue there. No issue there at all.”

  “Then I don’t get it,” Corsac said.

  “Get it?” Castle echoed. “Front-page news, Jack. That’s what we’re talking about here. Front-page news at last. It’ll blow over, always does. And when it does, our ratings are going to be through the roof.”

  “And we’ll move to prime time,” Corsac said.

  “Better than that. I have assurance this is going to make us big. I’ve got an OK from the board.”

  “And that means?”

  “We’re going prime time, Jack. Congratulations.” Castle smiled thinly, briefly. “Now go get some rest, man. You got a busy day ahead of you tomorrow.”

  Corsac’s glee was obvious, although Sam, ever the voice of reason, said, “Whoa, hold on a minute there. If you’re saying we’re moving time slots, which is a good thing, why are you so tense?”

  “Who,” Castle asked, “me?”

  “You look like you’ve picked a fight with Mike Tyson and the first bell’s just sounded.”

  “Well, I said you were good.”

  “Please, just answer the question.”

  Castle kept his eyes upon Sam for several moments, then said, “Fair enough. We might be making the news in another way. A way I think we’d all prefer to keep away from.”