If you’ve never been to the Beverly Hills Hotel, I suggest you get yourself invited there…it is a great hotel and it has a terrific ballroom. This was the site of the Burnett Media Old White Rich Motherfucker’s Fancy Dress & Backpatting Social, thought the sign on Salon A just said “Private Event”. If you were to send a suicide bomber into the room, you’d probably wipe out half the shitty television programming and advertising. But instead, they were sending me, and I could take them all out if I wanted. I was lounging by myself on the terrace overlooking the pool, bar lightly packed behind me with entertainment types; not the kind I was going to be standing in front of shortly – those were industry types.
There were three or four agencies represented there with their jr. suckasses and glorified mailroom attendants. A couple of struggling actresses and baristas passing for models mixed in for good measure. There were a few unkempt looking guys – writers, and your run-of-the-mill studio development veep next to PR debutants. All of them the shallow, unimportant entertainment fragment of media. My crowd was in the Crystal Ballroom, and actually made important plays in the industry, not angling for a chance to bask in the limelight. Fame and recognition aren’t shit. It’s power that matters. If you ever went into Trader Vics or Dantana’s or one of those old school steakhouses in the day, you wouldn’t see these poseur pieces of crap. There’d be a bunch of plain looking people who didn’t try to get themselves into the background of a paparazzi shot. Guys who didn’t need to have their name known, but folks respected who they were because of what they made happen.
It was my fair maiden gin and I, gazing down on a trio of college gals gabbing around some chaise lounges, oblivious to my voyeurism. I could have been three or four deep already, but this was my one and only drink, and I was just looking to shave some of the edge off before my walk to the gallows. Honestly, I could have spent the evening looking out into the night sky, enjoying the muted coolness that passed for autumn in California. I caught a wisp of vanilla and jasmine as she came towards me in a splendidly clingy black cocktail gown. There was enough room to land a plane in the span between the small panels of low cut fabric, but a pair of perfectly enhanced breasts were blocking any change of air traffic navigation.
“Nice night,” she said, walking towards me with a measured but deliberate gait.
“It still could be,” I replied, smiling briefly but then turning my attention back to the field of stars and calm night sky.
“Buy me a drink and maybe it can be.”
She sashayed over to the railing and rested her elbow on it, leaning so that both her breasts and legs crept a bit more out of the dress for display.
“I wish that I could, seeing how a drink makes work a little more tolerable, but I’m about to have one of the most intense nights of my life, and sadly, it won’t be on top of you.”
She pouted and bit her lip playfully, “But I think you want too.”
“Doing and saying what I want to has never been the problem. It’s not that has.”
Another equally beautiful gal in a gold trimmed white tank dress snuggled up to her friend and looked over at me. There was maybe a finger’s width before her dress rode up to show of panties. If she was wearing any.
Miss White leaned over and whispered in Miss Black’s ear and then giggled. And jiggled. “My friend thinks you’re cute,” Miss White said. “Let all have a drink together.”
“If in a few hours when I’m done you’re both still unoccupied, then I’ll introduce you to some guys who can give you the keys to their car and not worry if they ever see it again.”
Their eyes lit up.
“But I warn you,” I added, “they are not as charming or attractive as me,” which got a smile out of the girls.
Neither had a purse, but somehow, when they came over to be, they were able to produce a business card. There was only a phone number on it.
Miss White extended her dainty hand. “Britta,” she introduced, leaning forward so that her dress gently slipped away at the midsection, making the plunging neckline plunge much further.
“Sheldon,” I said, cupping her hand.
Miss Black received my hand from Britta, and caressed it softly. “Zia,” she said.
“A pleasure ladies, but I’m afraid I have to finish this drink and go radically realign some perspectives.”
“Are you sure we can’t realign yours,” Zia asked.
Goddamn it.
There were three or four agencies represented there with their jr. suckasses and glorified mailroom attendants. A couple of struggling actresses and baristas passing for models mixed in for good measure. There were a few unkempt looking guys – writers, and your run-of-the-mill studio development veep next to PR debutants. All of them the shallow, unimportant entertainment fragment of media. My crowd was in the Crystal Ballroom, and actually made important plays in the industry, not angling for a chance to bask in the limelight. Fame and recognition aren’t shit. It’s power that matters. If you ever went into Trader Vics or Dantana’s or one of those old school steakhouses in the day, you wouldn’t see these poseur pieces of crap. There’d be a bunch of plain looking people who didn’t try to get themselves into the background of a paparazzi shot. Guys who didn’t need to have their name known, but folks respected who they were because of what they made happen.
It was my fair maiden gin and I, gazing down on a trio of college gals gabbing around some chaise lounges, oblivious to my voyeurism. I could have been three or four deep already, but this was my one and only drink, and I was just looking to shave some of the edge off before my walk to the gallows. Honestly, I could have spent the evening looking out into the night sky, enjoying the muted coolness that passed for autumn in California. I caught a wisp of vanilla and jasmine as she came towards me in a splendidly clingy black cocktail gown. There was enough room to land a plane in the span between the small panels of low cut fabric, but a pair of perfectly enhanced breasts were blocking any change of air traffic navigation.
“Nice night,” she said, walking towards me with a measured but deliberate gait.
“It still could be,” I replied, smiling briefly but then turning my attention back to the field of stars and calm night sky.
“Buy me a drink and maybe it can be.”
She sashayed over to the railing and rested her elbow on it, leaning so that both her breasts and legs crept a bit more out of the dress for display.
“I wish that I could, seeing how a drink makes work a little more tolerable, but I’m about to have one of the most intense nights of my life, and sadly, it won’t be on top of you.”
She pouted and bit her lip playfully, “But I think you want too.”
“Doing and saying what I want to has never been the problem. It’s not that has.”
Another equally beautiful gal in a gold trimmed white tank dress snuggled up to her friend and looked over at me. There was maybe a finger’s width before her dress rode up to show of panties. If she was wearing any.
Miss White leaned over and whispered in Miss Black’s ear and then giggled. And jiggled. “My friend thinks you’re cute,” Miss White said. “Let all have a drink together.”
“If in a few hours when I’m done you’re both still unoccupied, then I’ll introduce you to some guys who can give you the keys to their car and not worry if they ever see it again.”
Their eyes lit up.
“But I warn you,” I added, “they are not as charming or attractive as me,” which got a smile out of the girls.
Neither had a purse, but somehow, when they came over to be, they were able to produce a business card. There was only a phone number on it.
Miss White extended her dainty hand. “Britta,” she introduced, leaning forward so that her dress gently slipped away at the midsection, making the plunging neckline plunge much further.
“Sheldon,” I said, cupping her hand.
Miss Black received my hand from Britta, and caressed it softly. “Zia,” she said.
“A pleasure ladies, but I’m afraid I have to finish this drink and go radically realign some perspectives.”
“Are you sure we can’t realign yours,” Zia asked.
Goddamn it.
---
I didn’t have much in the way of control. But even though I couldn’t back out, Nell was kind enough to not hover over me or ask when I wanted to charge a little to the company. I doubt she would have signed off on my expenditures without lengthy discussion, so order to make me happy and stay happy about getting up in front of the Burnett Media group and their esteemed colleagues, she had to let me do the engagement the way I wanted to. I straightened the cuff of my navy Brioni pinstripe suit so that it sat just right over my pique front Stefano Ricco shirt, and checked the knot on the Salvatore Ferragamo silk tie that was Windsor knotted. Ng, the tailor at Neiman Marcus had made the pant cuff his at just the perfect height so my John Lobb Oxfords would be shown in all their glory. I had a Patrick Bateman moment impressing myself with the wardrobe I’d selected and Nell paid for, but hey, be happy and stay happy.
I took a slow, deep breath and closed my eyes. Fuck you Burnett Media. Fuck you Ephimria. I exhaled, pushing all of that out of my mind. Inhale power, exhale force. The amber glow of the room faded and no longer glistened like an aura behind my closed eyelids. I opened my eyes and the room was like a black ocean. The incoherent mumbling of the room slowly faded the longer they sat in the dark, and I enjoyed as the moments ticked by, stretching out seemingly longer and longer as they waited for what was going to happen.
There was a low rumbling. Double bass and contrabassoon sustained a double low C, joined shortly by an organ hitting the same note. Thanks to digital editing and one of Vedodius’ mix engineers, we stretched that out a good thirty seconds longer than it was in the regular score before the brass fanfare kicked in. The horns and trumpets, trombones and tubas delivered the arguably the most recognizable three notes in modern composition; the C-G-C melody followed by their climax in natural overtones and timpani drums pounding out. A spot light shown on a monolith at the center of the stage, draped in a black cloth. Around it, half a dozen monkeys started to stand, and as they were reaching full extension, the sheet was drawn away, revealing the monolith to be a giant television with two radio broadcast antenna flanking the sides. A neon colored Burnett Media was made to look like it was being zapped between them, arcing so that a small satellite in between the two words bridged the connection. It went perfectly, timed to the final crescendo of the Einleitung. If I could see, I bet a tear would be hanging off the corner of old Gaston Burnett’s eye. There’s no topping Also Sprach Zarathustra for an opening.
There were applause, but the opening was not finished as the last triumphant note rang out. Before it faded, the distortion of guitars kicked in, and adults who’d never listed to anything heavier than James Taylor or bothered to see what their teenagers had been focused on in their rooms got blasted by the fury of Soundgarden’s “Jesus Christ Pose”. A row of strobe lights fired off at the audience as the monkeys undulated to the grinding riffs and frenetic drumming, unzipping their monkey costumes to reveal women clad in leather bodysuits. The display rotated around, bringing me to face the audience as my monkey masked sexpots writhed in strobe-motion. I stepped off the display which completed its rotation back to the broadcast monolith, and raised my hand. Waiting for the right downbeat, I dropped my arm and the music cut, and a small burst of sparklers ignited at the foot of the stage in emphasis as the strobes switched to full power and sustained a blast of light that made us stringy stick figures in its glare for a moment. The room cut back to blackness, the only light coming from the Burnett Media logo on the stage.
A spattering of applause came, less than the response to the Zarathustra portion. Maybe I should have warned them of the seizure-causing possibility from those strobes. Or my dirty monkey babes. Eh….fuck ‘em. The lights came up to around half brightness and I was alone on stage. I clasped my hands and gave a slight bow of acknowledgement to the room. One of the monkey gals brought out a stool, which had an empty champagne flute and a lavaliere mic, which I clipped in the lapel of my coat. A hand towel was flopped over one of the rungs. I nodded at my monkey assistant in thanks and surveyed the room.
“Clearly, Cam Branson and his pal Jimmy will not be here to perform their ventriloquist act tonight.”
There were nervous laughs, but still a good number of dazed and confused people in the room.
“Good evening everyone, and thank you for attending tonight’s dinner and mini-gala. For those of you attending your first one of these, I assure you, this is not typical. And for those of you who have been privileged to have returned to another one of these evenings, aren’t you glad it’s not typical?”
More nervous laughs, folks still settling in and calming down from their shock assault by simian dancers and alternative rock.
“My name is Sheldon, and we’re stuck together for the next hour or so. I promise you that no matter how rough things get, I’m not leaving. So let me point out the exits are here, here and here,” I added gesturing with both hands to the emergency exits on either side of the room. “I won’t take it personally if you want to save yourself the embarrassment of having to walk out in the middle by leaving now.”
Everybody stayed put.
“Well, okay then, now you’ve been warned. As I said, my name is Sheldon, and some of you may recognize me from years of television that was playing in the background while you were eating dinner or falling asleep or maybe even having a romantic moment. So in a way, perhaps some us are a little more intimately acquainted than others. Most recently, I had a little program called Another Fifteen Minutes on your fine Classic News Channel.”
I paused for the rudimentary applause that followed – not for my show but the channel itself.
“Thank you, whichever one you’re clapping for. But since we are here regarding Burnett Media and we are fortunate to have it’s founder and other top brass here, let us take a moment to say thanks to them for host this event and congratulate them on the excellent ratings and ad revenue so far in this quarter.”
My ape bitches crisscrossed the room with large trays of champagne, distributing the glasses to all the tables. The display behind me turned to reveal my cane and a bottle of Moët White Star, which I took and brought back to my stool.
“Shortly after I received the good news that I would be speaking to you all tonight, I celebrated by getting stabbed in the leg. Other than the fading tingle of nerve damage, which continues to be less frequent, I got a short supply of painkillers and this nifty little plank. So you know, there are easier ways to get painkillers, so don’t try this at home, okay? One of my associates got this for me, and though I regret that I’m not turning into Dr. Gregory House and getting to flip pills and bound about with a cane, I’m happily just as fractious and gruff. Just a few more doctors visits and physical therapy before this’ll be just another trinket of affection, so I’m trying to make the most of it now.”
I held the shaft firm and twisted the top, working both in opposite directions until it unthreaded from the scabbard. Drawing the blade from the sheath, I admired it and displayed it for the onlookers.
“This was much more practical than a wheelchair with a flamethrower.” A better response of laughs than before.
“So over the past few weeks I’ve had my share of free time healing and preparing for tonight, so I tried to perfect this,” I said, exchanging the empty cane for the champagne. “But all that practice has resulted in a lot of champagne that I couldn’t let go to waste. Let’s hope I can pull this off in front of an audience. And not only just in my socks and underwear.”
I held the bottle out and gave a good swing at it, angling it slightly to whisk the cork up and out, which it did with a satisfying pop. Some effervescent mist sprayed out, but there was no geyser, and more importantly, I didn’t take off a finger in the process. I poured myself a glass and re-sheathed my blade.
“To our hosts, Burnett Media and Gaston Burnett…cheers!”
The room resonated with cheers and applause, as Gaston Burnett, who was in a table towards the back stood up and waved in acknowledgement.
“Sir,” I asked, “Can I have my old job back?”
He shrugged and held out his hands, which made the salutations taper off into mild amusement.
“Well, we’ll look into that later,” I said nodding and then sipping the champagne. I put it down on the stool, and as I wiped my hands with the towel, shook my head no.
“Okay ladies and gentlemen…and marketing and advertising folks, we’re done with the silly stunts and breaking the ice, so let’s just talk. And by talk I mean you sit there approvingly while I prattle on, occasionally taking a moment to make a dent in this bottle. You okay there, boss?”
Nell was sitting a table on the far left of the room, looking as though she was trying to rein in a full blown panic attack. I turned to one of the chimp gals, “Bring her a full bottle, please.” Nell slowly held up her hand and raised two fingers, which titillated the audience.
“A woman after my own heart,” I added, raising my glass in salute to her.
“As I said before, I was, up until recently, part of the Classic News Channel family. Before that I worked across the television landscape for quite a few networks, doing everything from copy editor to newsroom manager to producer. I’ve been in this business longer than many of you have had your mistresses, and I even know some of them because I made the introductions. Nine or ten years ago I was able to attend a similar event, enjoying endangered species and drinking exquisite vintages, back when Burnett was just a midsized newspaper and radio company that was partnering with my old employer NewsCorp for distribution. Legal issues keep me from discussing the circumstances as to why I’m here before you instead of with you, but that doesn’t say anything sharing about my feelings.”
If Mason Burnett’s sphincter tightening at the thought of that could be described as anything, I would guess that it would be like that of a black hole or whirlpool, and thankfully, it wasn’t drawing us all into it. I had to take a glance at my helpers in their sexy outfits to wash the mental image away to continue.
“It made me very sad and angry to have to leave this industry, because for so long it had been my life and identity. But I had a responsibility as a journalist, entertainer and producer to uphold, and that also extends to my actions and feelings and abilities. That’s one of the ideas I will be touching upon – responsibility. One of the best things to happen to me leaving my career was the opportunity to reflect on it and reevaluate my responsibilities – to myself and to my employers. And sometimes, like tonight, you have to do something that’s asked of you even though you do not want to.” I added, “With the help of much alcohol and focusing my attention on unrequited feelings of affection, one can deal with anything.”
A young lady who I know, an associate, was kind enough to share the story of Billy Ransom with me not long ago, which has some parallels. Apparently, he was one of those guys who also had himself a “crisis of faith” and they would say in the ecumenical world. Now Billy, he was a former tobacco executive, a company man who spent his years saying ‘go team’ and really meant it. And like all good servants, he was rewarded with some terminal cancer, the side effect of enjoying your own products. By the time he’d found all this out, he’d already left the company and rattled the feathers of some of the top birds for reasons that are not really known to this day. He was a public speaker by then, and once he saw his days were numbered, he ended up booking a gig with his old employer.”
One of my lady primates came on stage to deliver a manila envelope.
“During his talk, Billy Ransom opened up a manila envelope, just like this and shot six of his former co-workers before shooting himself.”
I reached into the envelope and gripped the cool metal in my hand. Surprise, you motherfuckers.
I took a slow, deep breath and closed my eyes. Fuck you Burnett Media. Fuck you Ephimria. I exhaled, pushing all of that out of my mind. Inhale power, exhale force. The amber glow of the room faded and no longer glistened like an aura behind my closed eyelids. I opened my eyes and the room was like a black ocean. The incoherent mumbling of the room slowly faded the longer they sat in the dark, and I enjoyed as the moments ticked by, stretching out seemingly longer and longer as they waited for what was going to happen.
There was a low rumbling. Double bass and contrabassoon sustained a double low C, joined shortly by an organ hitting the same note. Thanks to digital editing and one of Vedodius’ mix engineers, we stretched that out a good thirty seconds longer than it was in the regular score before the brass fanfare kicked in. The horns and trumpets, trombones and tubas delivered the arguably the most recognizable three notes in modern composition; the C-G-C melody followed by their climax in natural overtones and timpani drums pounding out. A spot light shown on a monolith at the center of the stage, draped in a black cloth. Around it, half a dozen monkeys started to stand, and as they were reaching full extension, the sheet was drawn away, revealing the monolith to be a giant television with two radio broadcast antenna flanking the sides. A neon colored Burnett Media was made to look like it was being zapped between them, arcing so that a small satellite in between the two words bridged the connection. It went perfectly, timed to the final crescendo of the Einleitung. If I could see, I bet a tear would be hanging off the corner of old Gaston Burnett’s eye. There’s no topping Also Sprach Zarathustra for an opening.
There were applause, but the opening was not finished as the last triumphant note rang out. Before it faded, the distortion of guitars kicked in, and adults who’d never listed to anything heavier than James Taylor or bothered to see what their teenagers had been focused on in their rooms got blasted by the fury of Soundgarden’s “Jesus Christ Pose”. A row of strobe lights fired off at the audience as the monkeys undulated to the grinding riffs and frenetic drumming, unzipping their monkey costumes to reveal women clad in leather bodysuits. The display rotated around, bringing me to face the audience as my monkey masked sexpots writhed in strobe-motion. I stepped off the display which completed its rotation back to the broadcast monolith, and raised my hand. Waiting for the right downbeat, I dropped my arm and the music cut, and a small burst of sparklers ignited at the foot of the stage in emphasis as the strobes switched to full power and sustained a blast of light that made us stringy stick figures in its glare for a moment. The room cut back to blackness, the only light coming from the Burnett Media logo on the stage.
A spattering of applause came, less than the response to the Zarathustra portion. Maybe I should have warned them of the seizure-causing possibility from those strobes. Or my dirty monkey babes. Eh….fuck ‘em. The lights came up to around half brightness and I was alone on stage. I clasped my hands and gave a slight bow of acknowledgement to the room. One of the monkey gals brought out a stool, which had an empty champagne flute and a lavaliere mic, which I clipped in the lapel of my coat. A hand towel was flopped over one of the rungs. I nodded at my monkey assistant in thanks and surveyed the room.
“Clearly, Cam Branson and his pal Jimmy will not be here to perform their ventriloquist act tonight.”
There were nervous laughs, but still a good number of dazed and confused people in the room.
“Good evening everyone, and thank you for attending tonight’s dinner and mini-gala. For those of you attending your first one of these, I assure you, this is not typical. And for those of you who have been privileged to have returned to another one of these evenings, aren’t you glad it’s not typical?”
More nervous laughs, folks still settling in and calming down from their shock assault by simian dancers and alternative rock.
“My name is Sheldon, and we’re stuck together for the next hour or so. I promise you that no matter how rough things get, I’m not leaving. So let me point out the exits are here, here and here,” I added gesturing with both hands to the emergency exits on either side of the room. “I won’t take it personally if you want to save yourself the embarrassment of having to walk out in the middle by leaving now.”
Everybody stayed put.
“Well, okay then, now you’ve been warned. As I said, my name is Sheldon, and some of you may recognize me from years of television that was playing in the background while you were eating dinner or falling asleep or maybe even having a romantic moment. So in a way, perhaps some us are a little more intimately acquainted than others. Most recently, I had a little program called Another Fifteen Minutes on your fine Classic News Channel.”
I paused for the rudimentary applause that followed – not for my show but the channel itself.
“Thank you, whichever one you’re clapping for. But since we are here regarding Burnett Media and we are fortunate to have it’s founder and other top brass here, let us take a moment to say thanks to them for host this event and congratulate them on the excellent ratings and ad revenue so far in this quarter.”
My ape bitches crisscrossed the room with large trays of champagne, distributing the glasses to all the tables. The display behind me turned to reveal my cane and a bottle of Moët White Star, which I took and brought back to my stool.
“Shortly after I received the good news that I would be speaking to you all tonight, I celebrated by getting stabbed in the leg. Other than the fading tingle of nerve damage, which continues to be less frequent, I got a short supply of painkillers and this nifty little plank. So you know, there are easier ways to get painkillers, so don’t try this at home, okay? One of my associates got this for me, and though I regret that I’m not turning into Dr. Gregory House and getting to flip pills and bound about with a cane, I’m happily just as fractious and gruff. Just a few more doctors visits and physical therapy before this’ll be just another trinket of affection, so I’m trying to make the most of it now.”
I held the shaft firm and twisted the top, working both in opposite directions until it unthreaded from the scabbard. Drawing the blade from the sheath, I admired it and displayed it for the onlookers.
“This was much more practical than a wheelchair with a flamethrower.” A better response of laughs than before.
“So over the past few weeks I’ve had my share of free time healing and preparing for tonight, so I tried to perfect this,” I said, exchanging the empty cane for the champagne. “But all that practice has resulted in a lot of champagne that I couldn’t let go to waste. Let’s hope I can pull this off in front of an audience. And not only just in my socks and underwear.”
I held the bottle out and gave a good swing at it, angling it slightly to whisk the cork up and out, which it did with a satisfying pop. Some effervescent mist sprayed out, but there was no geyser, and more importantly, I didn’t take off a finger in the process. I poured myself a glass and re-sheathed my blade.
“To our hosts, Burnett Media and Gaston Burnett…cheers!”
The room resonated with cheers and applause, as Gaston Burnett, who was in a table towards the back stood up and waved in acknowledgement.
“Sir,” I asked, “Can I have my old job back?”
He shrugged and held out his hands, which made the salutations taper off into mild amusement.
“Well, we’ll look into that later,” I said nodding and then sipping the champagne. I put it down on the stool, and as I wiped my hands with the towel, shook my head no.
“Okay ladies and gentlemen…and marketing and advertising folks, we’re done with the silly stunts and breaking the ice, so let’s just talk. And by talk I mean you sit there approvingly while I prattle on, occasionally taking a moment to make a dent in this bottle. You okay there, boss?”
Nell was sitting a table on the far left of the room, looking as though she was trying to rein in a full blown panic attack. I turned to one of the chimp gals, “Bring her a full bottle, please.” Nell slowly held up her hand and raised two fingers, which titillated the audience.
“A woman after my own heart,” I added, raising my glass in salute to her.
“As I said before, I was, up until recently, part of the Classic News Channel family. Before that I worked across the television landscape for quite a few networks, doing everything from copy editor to newsroom manager to producer. I’ve been in this business longer than many of you have had your mistresses, and I even know some of them because I made the introductions. Nine or ten years ago I was able to attend a similar event, enjoying endangered species and drinking exquisite vintages, back when Burnett was just a midsized newspaper and radio company that was partnering with my old employer NewsCorp for distribution. Legal issues keep me from discussing the circumstances as to why I’m here before you instead of with you, but that doesn’t say anything sharing about my feelings.”
If Mason Burnett’s sphincter tightening at the thought of that could be described as anything, I would guess that it would be like that of a black hole or whirlpool, and thankfully, it wasn’t drawing us all into it. I had to take a glance at my helpers in their sexy outfits to wash the mental image away to continue.
“It made me very sad and angry to have to leave this industry, because for so long it had been my life and identity. But I had a responsibility as a journalist, entertainer and producer to uphold, and that also extends to my actions and feelings and abilities. That’s one of the ideas I will be touching upon – responsibility. One of the best things to happen to me leaving my career was the opportunity to reflect on it and reevaluate my responsibilities – to myself and to my employers. And sometimes, like tonight, you have to do something that’s asked of you even though you do not want to.” I added, “With the help of much alcohol and focusing my attention on unrequited feelings of affection, one can deal with anything.”
A young lady who I know, an associate, was kind enough to share the story of Billy Ransom with me not long ago, which has some parallels. Apparently, he was one of those guys who also had himself a “crisis of faith” and they would say in the ecumenical world. Now Billy, he was a former tobacco executive, a company man who spent his years saying ‘go team’ and really meant it. And like all good servants, he was rewarded with some terminal cancer, the side effect of enjoying your own products. By the time he’d found all this out, he’d already left the company and rattled the feathers of some of the top birds for reasons that are not really known to this day. He was a public speaker by then, and once he saw his days were numbered, he ended up booking a gig with his old employer.”
One of my lady primates came on stage to deliver a manila envelope.
“During his talk, Billy Ransom opened up a manila envelope, just like this and shot six of his former co-workers before shooting himself.”
I reached into the envelope and gripped the cool metal in my hand. Surprise, you motherfuckers.
---
The flash of the camera made several of the people in the room gasp, as I drew it from the envelope and popped a shot.
“Can everybody lean in towards the center a little,” I asked. “I may not have gotten everybody in that one.”
There was mumbling and stunned reactions, and I looked over at Nell, who facepalmed herself. I snapped a photo of that too. And took a few more of the crowd, who were gathering their wits and checking to see they didn’t soil themselves. And from the back, cutting through the fog of noise was Gaston Burnett, chortling with belly laughs at the absurdity and results of the prank. It quieted the room down as their top dog didn’t seem to be afflicted with the same chickenshit fears that I would bother to waste a bullet on any of them. Nell didn’t even bother to pour a glass and drank directly from the bottle. I handed the digital camera off to an assistant, who I gave a little slap on her rump.
“Grrrrr,” she grunted and turned back around to look at me. Even underneath the mask I could feel the disapproving scowl. I just shrugged and raised my glass to her, finishing the glass and pouring another. Sorry, Carla, but that ass was just too luscious not to give a slap too. It wasn’t what we’d discussed as I hatched my grand presentation, but since there was no way to get anybody in there to watch me dance to their organ music, you knew that being part of the circus was the only way you could observe it.
The conversation went like this ten days ago:
“Can everybody lean in towards the center a little,” I asked. “I may not have gotten everybody in that one.”
There was mumbling and stunned reactions, and I looked over at Nell, who facepalmed herself. I snapped a photo of that too. And took a few more of the crowd, who were gathering their wits and checking to see they didn’t soil themselves. And from the back, cutting through the fog of noise was Gaston Burnett, chortling with belly laughs at the absurdity and results of the prank. It quieted the room down as their top dog didn’t seem to be afflicted with the same chickenshit fears that I would bother to waste a bullet on any of them. Nell didn’t even bother to pour a glass and drank directly from the bottle. I handed the digital camera off to an assistant, who I gave a little slap on her rump.
“Grrrrr,” she grunted and turned back around to look at me. Even underneath the mask I could feel the disapproving scowl. I just shrugged and raised my glass to her, finishing the glass and pouring another. Sorry, Carla, but that ass was just too luscious not to give a slap too. It wasn’t what we’d discussed as I hatched my grand presentation, but since there was no way to get anybody in there to watch me dance to their organ music, you knew that being part of the circus was the only way you could observe it.
The conversation went like this ten days ago:
“You’re seriously going to make them think you’re going to shoot them?”
“You say that like it’s a bad idea,” I defended myself. “It’s not illegal, I mean, I’m not making an actual threat.”
“Well,” Carla thought, “I don’t think it actually constitutes one, but it’s not in good taste.”
“These are television and media businesspeople. They don’t even understand what good taste is. If I had women gyrating doing a strip tease in gorilla suits…only something as stupid and bizarre as that could faze them. And maybe not even that”
“I don’t know that Nell is going to go for it.”
“Probably not,” I reckoned. “But if I’m going to go down in a blaze of glory, it should be spectacular.”
“Why does it have to be like that?”
“It doesn’t, but when I set out to do something, I don’t like to have to compromise. I just like to go at things head on. You may have noticed I’m a little direct.”
“Tact never worked for you,” she questioned.
“Let me ask this – I’ve been playing it cool with you instead of being aggressive. Where has that gotten me?”
“That’s different, Sheldon.”
“I don’t see how?”
“It’s complicated…”
“Look Carla, it’s not a bald spot – I just got a haircut that was too short so it looks like – “
“That’s not it at all,” she interrupted.
“It’s just what then?”
“I’m just not ready to be involved with anyone…and it’s not for lack of interest in you or anything like that. This divorce, Rochelle. It’s hard to deal with that and still do my job. And doing talking gigs. As much as I want to, there’s no room for me to handle it, or put the time in that it requires. And that wouldn’t be fair to you, or me.”
“Has the time we’ve spent together not done anything to change that,” I asked.
“It’s made it worse,” Carla admitted. “Because it is harder now that I have feelings for you.”
“But not strong enough to follow through on those feelings…”
“Sheldon, that night at the ballet, I was so tempted to come inside afterwards…I think about that a lot. But if I did, I don’t think things would have worked out well.”
“I wasn’t that drunk. It would have still worked,” I smiled.
“That’s not what I was worried about. I wanted to, and I still think about if I did. But this is hard for me.”
“If you’re not ready, then I understand. I don’t like it, but you’re not leaving me with much choice.”
“No, I’m not.” And with that, Carla kissed me. Not a peck on the cheek but on the mouth. It was unexpected, and once I realized it was happening, it turned from a kiss to an embrace. I lost track of how long it was, but it could not have been as long as it felt, which is always the hallmark of a good kiss.
“That’s not complicating this at all.”
Carla smiled back. “When isn’t it complicated?”
“Tell me…how do you feel about putting on a gorilla suit and watch things get complicated?”
“As long as I don’t have to do any dancing.”
---
“Okay, so where were we? Yes, responsibility and regret. The more you have of one, you get more of the other. When I was a student in college, I briefly interned at a local television station. Now, I’d already worked broadcast consoles and even done some spoof programming, but this was my first time inside a real facility. Having learned the technical aspects and practiced them, I was far more learned than many of the actual, paid personnel at the station regarding their equipment. And did I have a chance to show any of that skill or knowledge? Absolutely not!
I was the most well educated janitor the place had ever seen. It was slow there, because it was the holidays, so a lot of folks were either traveling or with their families, and I figured that would be exactly the time I could show my stuff and make myself useful, perhaps wrangle a job there at some point in the future. It was a Thursday afternoon, and the production manager called me into his office, which reeked of cigars and cheap aftershave. He put his sweaty hand on my shoulder and said, ‘Sheldon, I have a very important task for you. Can you take care of this for us?’ As you could imagine, I was filled with excitement.
‘Okay, son,’ he said, ‘we need you to go over to University Hospital.’
‘No problem,’ I told him. ‘Should I take a camera and some recording equipment or what exactly is the story?’
‘We need you to get some thing for Mr. Clarkstern. His medicine is available and we need you to pick it up.’
‘His medicine?’
‘Yes, his ear medicine’
‘You want me to go to University Hospital, now, to pick up ear medicine for the station owner?’
‘Technically, it’s his father’s ear medicine. He’s also Mr. Clarkstern.’
‘It’s almost 3:30 and that’s across town,’ I protested, but it mattered little to him.
Needless to say, I did go across town, as rush hour started, to pick up the ear medicine for the father of the station owner. And if you’re wondering if that helped in any way, shape or form to get me in their good graces, think again. It was one of the first professional experiences I had that made me want to question authority, and certainly not the last. I’m not going to ask any of you to raise hands or anything like that, but I guarantee all of you have had those moments where you wonder what the hell your boss is thinking, am I right?”
There were some sight nods and people smiling in agreement. “Mason,” I said, you better not be nodding your head,” to which father and son both laughed along with the rest.
“There is a culture of servitude, where we are put through our paces and expected to jump through hoops of fire because we’re told to, and it’s done out of blind allegiance. Loyalty is not the same as devotion, and people do not understand the difference anymore. And the worst part is that somebody made you have to do terrible things while you paid your dues, so eventually you have to make the next one after you pay theirs. I hate to be the one to say it, but doing the job is the dues, not the stupid, power play shit that happens to coincide with it. And while respecting your bosses is important, you should respect them enough, and yourself, to not take an extra helping of crap just because they’ve got a spoon.
Supposing you’re actually in a position where you’re not being subject to outrageous demands, then you absolutely have to open your mouth and keep from rubber stamping something it. I regret that I ran that errand because it was nothing more than a power play with my lack of position being taken advantage of, and while I took on that responsibility, it was one of the last times I would ever agree to something without knowing what I was getting in return. And as some of my former colleagues know, when something didn’t agree with me, somehow I was going to make my feeling known.” A brief pause to dab some sweat from my brow and sip a little more champagne.
“I feel like I got a lot of that chutzpah from my mother. That and her love of libations,” I continued.
“When I was five or so, we were out at Woolworth’s doing some shopping, when a man who was doing a marketing study asked if we could spare a few moments. It was for Matchbox cars, and they had a whole table full of new toy cars, all of which were prototypes for upcoming lines. They would show me a few at a time and ask me what I thought of them, which ones I liked the most, and why. They would make different pairings and offer them up to me, noting what choices I made and then ask even more questions. It whole thing probably took 15 or 20 minutes, and afterwards we went one our way to continue shopping.
My mother took me to the toy department there and told me to pick out a toy car for myself. I didn’t understand why, because when I was being good, she would tell me we were going to the toy store, and she hadn’t mentioned it at all. When I asked, my mother said it wasn’t right to show a child all those toys and have them play with them, and then not give them a toy when they were done. The disparity of fairness was clear but the gravity of the meaning grew as I got older and could see where it was necessary to assert myself in calling situations out that didn’t’ seem right or were not fair.
For the record, I picked out a red 1955 Cadillac convertible with a white stripe running down the side that had a little plastic Popeye in the driver’s seat.”
I was the most well educated janitor the place had ever seen. It was slow there, because it was the holidays, so a lot of folks were either traveling or with their families, and I figured that would be exactly the time I could show my stuff and make myself useful, perhaps wrangle a job there at some point in the future. It was a Thursday afternoon, and the production manager called me into his office, which reeked of cigars and cheap aftershave. He put his sweaty hand on my shoulder and said, ‘Sheldon, I have a very important task for you. Can you take care of this for us?’ As you could imagine, I was filled with excitement.
‘Okay, son,’ he said, ‘we need you to go over to University Hospital.’
‘No problem,’ I told him. ‘Should I take a camera and some recording equipment or what exactly is the story?’
‘We need you to get some thing for Mr. Clarkstern. His medicine is available and we need you to pick it up.’
‘His medicine?’
‘Yes, his ear medicine’
‘You want me to go to University Hospital, now, to pick up ear medicine for the station owner?’
‘Technically, it’s his father’s ear medicine. He’s also Mr. Clarkstern.’
‘It’s almost 3:30 and that’s across town,’ I protested, but it mattered little to him.
Needless to say, I did go across town, as rush hour started, to pick up the ear medicine for the father of the station owner. And if you’re wondering if that helped in any way, shape or form to get me in their good graces, think again. It was one of the first professional experiences I had that made me want to question authority, and certainly not the last. I’m not going to ask any of you to raise hands or anything like that, but I guarantee all of you have had those moments where you wonder what the hell your boss is thinking, am I right?”
There were some sight nods and people smiling in agreement. “Mason,” I said, you better not be nodding your head,” to which father and son both laughed along with the rest.
“There is a culture of servitude, where we are put through our paces and expected to jump through hoops of fire because we’re told to, and it’s done out of blind allegiance. Loyalty is not the same as devotion, and people do not understand the difference anymore. And the worst part is that somebody made you have to do terrible things while you paid your dues, so eventually you have to make the next one after you pay theirs. I hate to be the one to say it, but doing the job is the dues, not the stupid, power play shit that happens to coincide with it. And while respecting your bosses is important, you should respect them enough, and yourself, to not take an extra helping of crap just because they’ve got a spoon.
Supposing you’re actually in a position where you’re not being subject to outrageous demands, then you absolutely have to open your mouth and keep from rubber stamping something it. I regret that I ran that errand because it was nothing more than a power play with my lack of position being taken advantage of, and while I took on that responsibility, it was one of the last times I would ever agree to something without knowing what I was getting in return. And as some of my former colleagues know, when something didn’t agree with me, somehow I was going to make my feeling known.” A brief pause to dab some sweat from my brow and sip a little more champagne.
“I feel like I got a lot of that chutzpah from my mother. That and her love of libations,” I continued.
“When I was five or so, we were out at Woolworth’s doing some shopping, when a man who was doing a marketing study asked if we could spare a few moments. It was for Matchbox cars, and they had a whole table full of new toy cars, all of which were prototypes for upcoming lines. They would show me a few at a time and ask me what I thought of them, which ones I liked the most, and why. They would make different pairings and offer them up to me, noting what choices I made and then ask even more questions. It whole thing probably took 15 or 20 minutes, and afterwards we went one our way to continue shopping.
My mother took me to the toy department there and told me to pick out a toy car for myself. I didn’t understand why, because when I was being good, she would tell me we were going to the toy store, and she hadn’t mentioned it at all. When I asked, my mother said it wasn’t right to show a child all those toys and have them play with them, and then not give them a toy when they were done. The disparity of fairness was clear but the gravity of the meaning grew as I got older and could see where it was necessary to assert myself in calling situations out that didn’t’ seem right or were not fair.
For the record, I picked out a red 1955 Cadillac convertible with a white stripe running down the side that had a little plastic Popeye in the driver’s seat.”
---
“What else do you have,” Fran asked me, as we sat at his kitchen table.
“Not much,” I shared. “I was hoping that the Billy Ransom bit would send everybody running for the door. At least, those who didn’t leave after the opening, or who didn’t stroke out from the lights.
“You’re fucked.”
“Tell me about it.”
“What’s there to tell? It’s a week away and I still don’t have my thoughts in order.”
“So you’re going to talk about taking responsibility for yourself and how that’s something lacking in the biz these days, what else do you feel you need to say about the state of things?”
“Besides owning up to the fact that taking risks is the only way to accomplish anything truly satisfying?”
“Well, that’s something. It was a risk to start talking to people.”
“A forced risk,” I corrected.
“Maybe you can spin that somehow and leave out the ‘resigned under a veil of secrecy and shame’ part”
“I’m killing myself trying to find any relevant part from my life and experiences to keep these people involved and not slit their wrists with a butter knife.”
Fran posed a question. “What is the angle that these other speakers have?”
“You mean, what gimmick?”
“Does it have to be that way?”
I was still wobbling around on the crutches, which were reaching their limit for usefulness. “When I get back from the bathroom, I will let you know.”
“There’s no bathroom break when you’re on stage, Shel.”
He was right.
“Okay,” I told him after thinking about it in my urinary moment of solitude. “There are four types of speakers – people who had something bad happen to them, overcome it, and then incorporate that into their talks. There are people who have some quirky talent and use that to showcase what they say, and people who have a particular career and talk about it. And then there’s people who are famous and parlay their celebrity status into a speaking gig.”
“And you’re somewhere between the third and fourth, and that’s being generous with the celebrity part.”
“Did I ever tell you about when I was near three years old and I met my childhood friend Jed McMahon on a playground? I was too young to recall, but my mother told me the story of our first interaction. We were playing in a sandbox at the park – “
“Wait,” Fran said. “How is that relevant?”
“It’s about a celebrity…Jed was in that movie The Goobers. It’s a cult classic with him and a bunch of other child stars.”
“Your point?”
“Hmmm…you’re right.”
“Okay, you can go on with the responsibility angle, but you’ve also got all kinds of ammo and angles with Ephimira.”
“But I can’t come right out and clobber them. I’d be safer wearing a Yankee’s jersey in Boston.”
“You can’t jam a hand grenade up Burnett Media’s ass and pull the pin either, but you can find a more subtle way to blow them up.”
“You should call in a bomb threat,” I said without any hint of humor.
“You know that’s not what I was going for.”
“I know, but it would help.”
“You’ve got Ephimria, you’ve got wild stories from the show (keep my name out of that, okay), you’ve got fire and brimstone feelings about the state of media and why they can’t keep a decent show on the air but clone all the shit ones. You can find a way to get those feeling across without being too offense. This thing is just a way for Burnett to suck up to their constituents…they wine and dine and show them a good time. You just have to be interesting and entertaining, and you being unable to stop being you, can also be slightly subversive and sarcastic. Stop trying to make it the most important thing ever in your life, and just get them to not throw their chairs at you. If you get out of there alive then you’ll probably land the deal for Nell. And if not, you tried.”
“Yeah, tried and failed.”
“Not tried and died,” Fran modified. “And if you really fuck it up and she fires you, then at least you’ll have more free time to hang out with me. I’ll even ask Mel to call upon her sister to come and pay a visit to cheer you up.
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