“I can’t afford to keep winning,” he says. “It’s exhausting my savings, and the tax implications are surprising. I’m told I’ve reached a point where additional winnings will be worth only about 10 cents on the dollar.”
“He is an engaging, curly-headed, lanky image of the all-American boy—‘so likeable,’ gushed the Chicago American’s TV critic Janet Kern, ‘that he has come to be a “friend” whose weekly visits the whole family eagerly anticipates.’“
The windows up here are small, and yet the building at this height seems bathed in a lambent natural light totally unlike the drab shade in which one walks at street level. It is celestial in effect, a purifying element, golden where all else is gray.
d. To prevent discoloration of (a photographic image) by washing or coating with a chemical preservative. 3. To direct steadily: fixed his eyes on the road. 4. To capture or hold: fixed our attention. 5a. To set or place definitely; establish: fixed his residency here. b. To determine with accuracy; ascertain. c. To agree on; arrange. 6. To assign; attribute: fixing the blame.
Seated at one corner of the conference room table’s gleaming expanse, Kenyon, Mr. Bigler, and Miss Gray review the contract.
“This clause stipulates the three-year term,” explains Miss Gray. “This one stipulates the salary of $50,000 per annum. … The exact nature of your position as contractor is outlined here: Public Programming Consultant, with appearances on the TODAY SHOW at a frequency maximum of daily. … Content delivered will be educational in nature—”
“Wonderful,” says Kenyon.
“—subject to the approval of the Production Office—”
“OK—”
“—and never to exceed the designated allotment of programming time.”
“I see.”
“ ‘The Saint Claires represent a tradition of people that is almost dead now, like Thoreau and Emerson. They have their roots in the 19th century. They are content and confident in themselves.’“
7a. To correct or set right; adjust. b. To restore to proper condition or working order; repair. 8. To make ready; prepare. 9. To spay or castrate (an animal).
“ ‘In our senior year,’ says one of Saint Claire’s college roommates, ‘Kenyon used to have a recurring dream about a billfold in which there was a twenty-dollar bill, and when you took the bill away there would always be another one there.’“
“You’ll sign again next month, of course,” says Miss Gray.
“Sign again?” says Kenyon. “Even though it’s a three-year term?”
“Yes, you’ll sign next time with Mr. Denning,” says Miss Gray.
“Our Vice President,” says Mr. Bigler.
“For the photographers,” says Miss Gray. “The publicity signing. Until then, we need to secure your complete confidentiality, so we’ve prepared this non-disclosure agreement.”
10. Informal. To take revenge upon; get even with. 11. To influence the outcome or actions of by improper or unlawful means: fix a jury. –intr. 1. To direct one’s efforts or attention; concentrate: fixed on the goal. 2. To become stable or firm; harden: the plaster is fixing. n. 1a. The act of adjusting, correcting, or repairing.
Agreements duly executed, they rise from the table to shake hands again.
“Welcome aboard, Kenyon,” says Mr. Bigler. “NBC is happy to have you. I believe Miss Gray has a little something with your name on it.”
“Here you are, Mister Saint Claire.”
The pale blue check bears the neatly typed sum: 4,400.00.
“Your first month’s pay.”
2. A clear determination or understanding. 3. A difficult or embarrassing situation; a predicament.
“And we wish you continuing luck with the quiz program,” says Mr. Bigler.
“Thank you. To tell the truth, I’ll be relieved to have all that behind me. Whenever the time should come.”
“I’d imagine it’s a good deal of pressure,” says Bigler.
“Yes. And less than ideal in other ways.”
“Ah. Tax implications?”
“There are those, to be sure. But this …” Kenyon waves the check, blushes. “A position of this kind, I mean—it’s much more my cup of tea.”
“Oh,” says Bigler. “Of course. You’re a teacher, after all.”
“I’m a teacher, yes. I hope to make a difference, you see, however small. Spouting answers—I’m not so sure that’s served anyone but me.”
“Well, good for you, Kenyon. Your intentions are very admirable.”
Mr. Bigler pats his arm, and then Miss Gray takes her leave as Bigler walks him back through the office to the elevators.
Down he goes, his first month’s pay tucked safely in his shirt pocket.
The figure on the check is equal to Kenyon’s annual salary at Columbia.
4. Slang. An amount of something craved, esp. an intravenous injection of a narcotic.
. . .
Coming back from the farm, seated passenger-side in the 190 as Kenyon sped them onto the turnpike, Ernestine had put her head back against the headrest and said, “They sure love you dearly.”
“Hm? Mom and Dad?”
“Your Mom and Dad, your brother, Mister Fadiman.”
“Kip’s practically family.”
“Can you remember a time,” said Ernestine, “when you didn’t feel the love of everyone around you?”
“I’d have to think…”
“I mean from all sides. Have you ever known anything else?”
“I’ll think about it. The military maybe. What makes you ask?”
She shrugged a little, head back and eyes half-closed. “Different lives. That’s all.”
“You and me? You mean your life’s been different?”
She let out a small sleep-thick laugh that was half a groan. Without looking she reached over and touched her hand to his neck. “Most people, Kenyon. Most people’s lives are nothing like yours.”
“Well,” he said, after a few moments. “I’m sure that’s true.”
“Lucky boy,” said Ernestine.
“Lucky boy,” he said.
The next day they met for lunch at Columbus Circle and she told him that when she was fourteen her mother had died of a head wound after slipping down a set of hospital stairs following a checkup, and that her father, a high school metal shop teacher, never recovered from the shock and grief. At seventeen Ernestine left the city and lived with an aunt in Pittsburgh while attending secretarial school. In her first year away her father was killed by a taxi on Third Avenue. There was just enough money for a plot and a simple bronze plaque, but nothing for an adequate funeral, and anyway Ernestine had never known his side of the family. Quietly she saw about his burial and went back to Pittsburgh. That same year her aunt, after being widowed a decade, remarried and moved in with her new husband and his four children from a prior marriage. Left to her own devices, Ernestine transferred to a secretarial school in New York, living in a ninth-floor single-bedroom apartment in Queens that she shared with the two girls who’d placed the classified.
“I still think about it sometimes,” she said. “Why I ever came back here. This city killed both my parents.”
“Why did you?” asked Kenyon.
“I still don’t know. No family. No real home. But I was born here. That seemed like reason enough.”
“I’m glad you’re here,” he said, and reached across the table to take her hand. “And listen, you can have my family. They love you already.”
“Oh, you’re giving them away, are you?”
“No, no. Sharing them,” he said.
He watched her take this in, squeezing her hand. She looked very serious and didn’t even blush. “That’s a lovely thought, Kenyon.”
They left it at that.
IN LIVING ROOMS ACROSS AMERICA
Her
e again is Kenny Saint Claire in earphones and shut up tight in his glass booth under all the lights. Again he holds his breath or hardly breathes as Fred Mint brings on the questions for nine points, ten points, eleven.
Name each of the six Balearic Islands.
Tell us the common names for: 1) caries 2) myopia 3) missing patellar reflex.
Name five members of George Washington’s cabinet.
The screen is all whites, silvers, and grays, airtight.
His face fills the frame, crushed close against the glass—glass in several layers: isolation booth glass, camera lens, television screen. Kenny Saint Claire a specimen in a box: scrutinized, admired, idealized, panegyrized, celebretized, and subjected to the projections of every viewer—all 20 million craning forward from the edge of their seats at home—a man watched more closely, maybe, than anyone of any time before him.
To watch him being watched, to see how he bears up, that’s half the stimulation.
To be asked to perform like that, it would be a nightmare and a fantasy all at once.
Can he really know all those answers? This question is also part of the fascination.
You look at him and ask yourself, if it were me in that booth …
And really he is you already, you and all the other millions who watch—Kenyon Saint Claire, sweating and murmuring behind glass, is taking upon himself everything you’ve ever wished for, worried over, dreamed of, or dreaded. Am I smart enough? Calm and collected enough? Good-looking enough? Likeable enough? Can I hold up under pressure? Can I make it look easy when I need to? Do I have anything worth envying? Have I figured out how to sport it? Would I answer the call—or take the fall—for a higher cause? Am I sufficiently ambitious? Do I banter well? Can I manage glamour and sophistication without growing arrogant or giving up plain talk? Would anybody ever call me inspiring? Am I a cause of anyone’s pride? Could I fake it if I needed to? Well, don’t we fake it every day, every last one of us? But me, am I convincing? What exactly do others think of me? What do I think of me?
Now Fred Mint announces it: they’ve got another tie! Kenyon in his booth and Mrs. Dearborn in hers—they smile tensely, disbelievingly, at this news in their earphones. And here come the spokesmodels to let them out while the crowd applauds. Always a relief to escape those hotboxes, you feel this as you watch the players step out through the doors. Even the losers, they’re relieved, and you’re relieved with them. But this one’s another tie—how many does that make now? Four, five? So Kenny Saint Claire is still in the game with winnings up to $143,000 tonight—in case you don’t believe it they display the sum right there on Mint’s podium, right under the word GERITOL.
“Missus Dearborn,” says Mint. “You’re really giving this fellow a run for his money, and I mean that quite literally. Is there some secret to your success so far? I guess you’d be wise not to tell us if there were.”
“No, no secret,” says Mrs. Dearborn in her soft-spoken way, pearl earrings glinting under the lights, “only a good deal of luck.”
“I’m sure you’re far too modest,” says Mint. “And Kenny, you’ve made it through once more.”
“I’ve scraped by, Fred, yes.”
“Would you ever have thought, those months ago when you first came on against Sid Winfeld, that you would find yourself here with one hundred forty-three thousand dollars, the most money ever won on television?”
“Never, Fred. Never. I never would have dreamed.”
“You’ve just taken it one game at a time.”
“One question at a time, yes. That’s all I could do.”
“Well, you continue to be a great inspiration to the many millions of viewers watching this program every week. I thank you both, in fact, for another very exciting game. And we’ll see you both again next week as you each try to break this nearly unbreakable tie. Goodnight.”
The audience applauds as the players go their opposite ways. Then the lights darken to leave only a pool of brightness on Mint at the podium.
“Now friends, until next week won’t you remember that if these winter days are getting you down, it may be due to iron deficiency anemia, or tired blood—a very common condition this time of year—and I have just the answer for you…”
Q:
How do you bear to watch this stuff?
A:
What do you mean?
Q:
Don’t you know it’s all a setup, fixed from start to finish?
A:
Fake, you mean. Sure, I know it’s fake.
Doesn’t everybody?
Q:
So you watch it for the theatrics?
A stage play, like?
A:
A teleplay, yep. I watch and laugh.
But then I think, wait, what if it isn’t?
Q:
Isn’t what?
A:
What if isn’t, you know, artificial? Fake.
Or what if it isn’t only that? You know,
what if it isn’t just for laughs?
Q:
I don’t follow.
A:
Look, here’s one of the producers—
yesterday’s Times—and they’re asking him, like
you’re asking me, are these programs fixed?
“No,” he tells them, “they’re simply controlled.
We know our contestants from exams—their
areas of expertise—and this gives us
a certain control.” Control is the word.
Q:
I don’t see the difference. Fixed.
Controlled. It’s doublespeak.
A:
Anyway, presuming they’re all fake—
The $64,000 Question, Dotto, Tic Tac Dough—
then fake is the new standard.
Q:
The status quo, like.
A:
Right. Bingo.
Fake is what we want.
Q:
Hold on now.
Is it what I want? No.
A:
Well, you gotta ask yourself that.
We all do. Not that it’ll change
anything we see on TV.
Q:
Fake is the new true?
A:
Brilliant. You said it.
Fake is the new true.
Q:
The new real.
A:
The new real.
What could be more entertaining?
Q:
God help us.
A:
What else could be this much better than the old real?
COMMENTATORS
“The controversy about the effect of TV on vision is likely to go on for some time to come. Until definitive tests have been made, the exact effects will not be known. In the meantime, certain simple precautions can be taken…”“Well of course we want problems but they had better be insoluble ones, because we want to keep on asking questions that can’t be answered. There’s no sense in asking a question that can be answered. That’s not an interesting thing to do.”
“Like a good American, he fought hard, taking advantage of every rule. Like a good American, he won without crowing. And like a good American, he kept on winning.”
MAILBAG
Dear Mr. Saint Claire,
I wish to tell you that as a result of your success answering those many difficult questions on television my twelve-year-old son Marvin has become quite another person. He seems to be plagued with a new kind of seriousness and never goes outside anymore. In the past it was everything we could do to get him to open a book, he much preferred to be playing out of doors all the time. Now he spends every hour he can with reference books and has designs to go on television at his earliest opportunity and wi
n until he is rich. That’s all well and good except that we’re beginning to fear for his health. Won’t you write to him to say that there is more to life than facts and money?
Sincerely,
Roberta Johnson
(Plainfield VT)
Dear Mr. Kenyon,
I am going to be on the honor roll this month for the first time, and this is all on account of you. Love, Dora (Springfield, OR)
KENYON
There have been rumors and murmurings, for weeks they’ve been leading up to this, and now here it is, flat on Ernestine’s desk: the latest edition of Time magazine, its cover trimmed in red and white, and there under the stately Roman lettering of the title is his own face, the face of Kenyon Saint Claire framed against a field of patriotic blue. Wired up in bulky black earphones, inclining toward the slender serpent’s head of a microphone, he’s fixing his gaze on an answer, determined that the answer not elude him, his lips parted to say his line. Above his left shoulder a legend reads “QUIZ CHAMP ST. CLAIRE,” and further up in the top corner a yellow banner says: “BRAINS V. DOLLARS ON TV.”
Kenyon’s heart is racing. “My goodness.”
Do I look like that?
“First time you’ve seen it?” says Ernestine.
“Yes.”
Is he overreacting, or is he really short of breath? He feels her watchful eyes as he picks the issue up. “I don’t remember taking this picture.”
Is that my face?
“Would you like a cup of water, Kenyon?”
“When does this come out?”
“Today, I think. Let me get you that water.”
Suddenly, somehow, the water glass is in his hand, and he’s still holding the magazine. He hasn’t even opened it. He’s thinking, somewhat irrelevantly, how little he resembles his father, despite what people say.
Does he really look like this? With that face? Whose is it?
“The story’s only a few pages,” says Ernestine, from somewhere just behind him. “In case you were wondering, you’re not the whole issue.”
“No? Good. I’m not that important. I’m not this important.” He’s realizing now how stunned he must look.
“Mister Lacky’s ready whenever you are. Do you need a minute?”
He lets the magazine slap down on the desk. He breathes out. “Oh, I don’t know. No. I think I’m ready.”
Q & A Page 16
