by Dan Jenkins
"So Barb, what does it all mean—in terms of life its ownself?"
What it meant was, Barbara Jane was going to stay at the Westwood Marquis for another three months for sure. I would try to be there as often as possible. If the show was successful in the ratings, she would stay on even longer because the network would want to start shooting episodes for next fall.
The prospect of becoming a bicoastal myself did not thrill me, but I didn't want to bring up a selfish point at the moment, not in the midst of a gala occasion.
"All we can do is root for good scripts," I said.
"Jack's going to write some of them."
"Jack?"
"Jack Sullivan, Biff."
"Oh, right."
"I think—I hope—Jack can take over as executive producer. It could make the whole difference in whether the show takes off."
"Seems like a good guy," I said. "Shouldn't I congratulate Carolyn Barnes? Put her on a minute."
"Uh...she's in the ladies' room. I'll tell her for you. How's it going out there? Ready for the big debut?"
Other than Larry Hoage, I said I had only met the director, producer, and stage manager. They were all good people.
"Who are they?"
"Mike Rash is the director. Teddy Cole produces. They're a couple of young hotshots."
"Did you say stage manager?"
"It's a person in the booth who helps coordinate everything. The stage manager's sort of a step above a go-fer, your own trusty sidekick. The stage manager met my plane."
"Good guy?"
"I like him okay. His names's...Ken Montgomery."
"I have to get off the phone, babe. Three adorables are waiting to call their service. Be yourself tomorrow. Have fun. Enjoy it. I'm going to tape the game."
"Did you get a Betamax for the room?"
"Jack has one. We're going to watch it at his house."
There was more than one reason why I had trouble getting to sleep that night. I was hyped-up about the telecast, of course. I was also beginning to feel a growing concern over my wife's fondness for her director, Jack Sullivan. But I wouldn't want guilt to slip away without a share of the credit.
I had lied about my stage manager and it had been a cowardly thing to do. Why had I lied? I hadn't laid a glove on Kathy Montgomery. Why the guilt?
Well, I knew why. I had flirted with Kathy. And why had I flirted with Kathy? Because she was a good-looking rascal and I was a man—and all men have that one-eighth of a gangster in them.
As Connie had once said to Uncle Kenneth, "They couldn't any more get the sorry out of you than they could scrape the shit off a Navajo blanket!" That was it. Men were one-eighth gangsters, but women were one-eighth bitches. Jump ball. It was called life its ownself, and you had to learn to laugh at it, live with it.
But I still hadn't been able to go to sleep that night until I'd read the chapter of Shake's book that had been inspired by his childhood.
MARRIED HEAT
Most married people are unhappy.
The main reason they're unhappy is because they can't go to movies as often as they once did.
This breeds a restlessness that spreads poison all through the relationship.
They start to expect too much from each other, to make unreasonable demands, and
look for things to give each other shit about.
Married people give each other more shit about money than anything else.
That's because money is what it takes to eat, buy clothes, go to movies, and take vacations.
The big difference between married men and married women is their outlook on money. Women like to spend all the money on wallpaper and drapes but always have the same amount of money in the bank in case of an emergency. Men like to spend all the money there is on good times, then make some more when they run out, or maybe not buy new wallpaper.
One of the reasons married men like to talk to single women is because single women almost never talk about wallpaper or drapes. Single women mostly talk about dope.
A few years ago, single women liked to talk about hard-ons, which was still better than wallpaper. And married women hardly ever talked about hard-ons.
That's changed. Today, married women probably talk more about hard-ons than single women because they know more deckhands. Married women meet the deckhands on cruises their husbands shouldn't have taken them on because the money should have stayed in the bank where it belonged.
Loretta Lynn, the singer, once said the truest thing in the world: "Love don't grow old; people do."
The result of that truth is a tired marriage. And big trouble. The shit starts to fly.
First thing a man knows, he's told he can't have a Labrador retriever. So to get back at his wife, the man says if she wants to go to a
movie, she can go hire a fag to take her.
Then they start to argue about everything that happened twenty years ago—and naturally it all comes down to where'd the money go that was here the other day?
There ought to be a marriage boutique that sells a certificate for the husband to keep around the house to show his wife when she gives him heat about money.
He can whip out the certificate when she looks at the bank statement, sees they're broke, and starts to raise blood-curdling hell.
He can show her the certificate and say, "Heck, Matilda, I thought it would earn more if I took it out of savings and put it in the Corporate Income Fund."
"How much do we have?"
"Gee, I don't know, but I'll ask the broker Monday. I'm sure it'll be worth more after he rolls it over."
This will relieve her mind. She can go look at wallpaper and the man can relax and watch the Texas-OU game in peace.
I have long advocated government-sub- sidized marriage. Without married people, our society would collapse. Married people are the only ones who vote, and somebody has to elect the vermin who call themselves servants of the people and appoint the bureaucrats who fuck up our lives.
Thus, if married people are going to be the backbone of our nation—and if these same married people are going to suffer the most abuse from each other—they should be paid by the government to do it. This would take the heat off love and put the heat on hard work, which is what a lasting marriage requires.
Social diseases have caused a fair amount of shit in marriage.
Husbands and wives alike tried unsuccessfully for years to sell their partners on the toilet seat, drinking glass, bedsheet explanation for social diseases.
Recently, I have noted a trend toward more creative thinking.
Wives who initially contract the dose from a deckhand have now learned to blame their husbands for passing it on to them. Since all husbands are guilty of cheating anyhow, they believe it, accept their time in the penalty box, and buy presents to make up for their sins.
What of the man who catches the dose and is certain he's transmitted it to his wife and can't afford to buy presents? In the old days, a man threw himself on the mercy of the court, but the gutters became littered with divorced men who were financially ruined because they threw themselves on the mercy of the court.
A pro football player named Dump McKinney once gave his wife the clap and saved the marriage for a year with one of the most inspired schemes I've ever heard of. The trick was to get his wife to take a penicillin shot for a reason other than the clap. One night they were paying bills together when an idea came to him.
He hit her in the hand with a staple gun.
"Honey, you better get a penicillin shot," he said. "You can't be too careful with tetanus."
Pride of ownership is the biggest reason married people take shit from each other. People feel they have a right to give their mates
excess heat because they married them in the first place. They could easily have married the other people they were fucking, but they didn't. They married who they married, which means their partners became "property."
This one is easy.
All marriages should have
a loan-out clause. A couple would agree beforehand on how many loan-outs they were going to need, per week, per month, per year.
If the husband wants to loan himself out to a ball game for a night, it would be his privilege. And if the wife wants to loan herself out to a deckhand, it would be her privilege.
People being only human, of course, any system might be taken advantage of by the self-indulgent personality.
There would be those husbands and wives who would claim they had lost count of their loan-outs and had gone over the limit.
Oops, sorry.
Well, there's a very good way to put an end to that kind of married shit.
Divorce.
"Holy Roman smokin' candles, Billy Clyde Puckett! You know what they say about that kind of football player, don't you?"
"No, Larry, what do they say?"
"They say he may have a small belt buckle but it's what he's got in the gut that counts!"
Larry Hoage referred to the Green Bay fullback, Edgar Morris, who had just gained two yards on a draw play at mid-field in the second quarter of a football game in which neither team had scored.
It hadn't been the fault of Charlie Teasdale that no points were on the scoreboard. The referee had marched both teams into scoring range with his penalty flags, but luck didn't seem to be going anybody's way.
Bad snaps had cost the Redskins two field goals from inside Green Bay's 10-yard line.
Green Bay had driven to Washington's 1-inch line, first down. But the Packers' quarterback, Beaner Todd, had fumbled on first down, Edgar Morris had lost yardage back to the 7 on second down, a third-down pass had been dropped in the end zone by Elbert Sweeney, Green Bay's tight end, and a 17-yard field-goal attempt had failed because of a strange mixup.
The Packers' soccer-style placekicker, Gerhard Munger, an East German, was right-footed. But Loren Doss, the holder, had positioned the ball for a left-footed kicker. Because of his deep concentration before the snap, the East German hadn't noticed this. When he swung his leg, he had caught the holder in the rib cage.
It had been a small price for the holder to pay for his union, but I hadn't betrayed Dreamer Tatum's confidence by saying this on the air. I had only said:
"That's how Gerhard got out of Berlin. He went through the wall instead of over it."
Now it was almost halftime and Larry Hoage was barking at the microphone again.
"It's first down, Packers. They look like they're ready to take somebody to the woodshed, Billy Clyde Puckett! You had an in-depth look at these two teams before today's kick- off. What'd you find out about the way they prepared for this donnybrook?"
"They practiced offense and defense."
"And what a great football team they are!" Larry shouted.
He hadn't heard me at all. The whole game. He had never heard anything but his own voice from the moment he went into broadcasting.
"Don't go 'way, chilluns. We've got a real old-fashioned, gut-bustin' sidewinder going for you out here in meat-packin' country! We'll be right back!"
Larry whirled around in his swivel chair and glared at
Kathy Montgomery, who wore a headset and stood behind us.
"This coffee's cold!" Larry snarled. "What the devil's going on up here? It's pretty darned unprofessional, if you ask me!"
Like the superb stage manager she was, Kathy magically produced a backup thermos of hot coffee, a jar of Coffee- Mate, a box of sugar cubes, and some plastic spoons.
She poured a fresh mug for Larry, who didn't leave his chair; for the cameraman at the end of the booth; for the color man—I was broadcasting from a standing position on Larry's right—and for Hoyt Nester, a man who took his job quite seriously.
Hoyt was seated on Larry's left. He was the play-by-play man's spotter and statistician, a man I judged to be in his seventies. Hoyt's beard was a white Vandyke, his tam was dark green, his Eisenhower jacket a lighter shade of green. Hoyt Nester lived next door to Larry Hoage in Orange County. A bigtime announcer like Larry could choose his own assistant. The network paid Hoyt some loose change and picked up his expenses.
Earlier in the day, I had pointed at Hoyt and said to Kathy:
"There's an oldtimer with some stories to tell. What's it cost not to hear any of them?"
Now, I thanked her for the coffee. Which wasn't the only thing she had produced for us before, and during, the telecast. She had provided hotdogs, soup, notepads, ballpoint pens, well-sharpened pencils, paper clips, rubber bands, statistical summaries from the league, magazine and newspaper tearsheets, media guides, a tub of ice, a pitcher of water, cold drinks, a trash basket, all of the promo cards in perfect order, and a little flask of J&B as a welcoming gift for me. She had even recruited Vivian and Dexter, in case the need might arise.
While we were in this commercial break, she said, "You're doing great. How do you like it?"
"You can see more up here."
"That's it?"
"Smells better, too."
"Is there much talking down on the field? To the other team?"
"Oh, sure."
"What kind of things do you say?"
"It depends."
"On what?"
"I don't know. How the game's going. If it's a close game you'd both like to win, there's not much talking. Lot of cussing. But if it's pretty well decided one way or the other, a guy might ask you if you've seen old What's-his-name, or how's old So-and-so doing? He might tell you he's got some good Colombian, if you want to meet him outside the dressing room after the whistle."
"What do you say when you cuss each other?"
We each had one ear off of our headsets.
"You really want to know?"
"Sure, it's fascinating."
"Well, let's say we're down on the goal line. I might wink at a couple of linebackers and say, 'Here I come, girls, y'all ready?'"
"Good. What would they say?"
"Oh, one of them would probably say something like, 'You ain't got enough shit in your pants to come this way, motherfucker!'"
Kathy shrieked.
Over the one ear of our headsets, we both heard Teddy Cole's voice.
"It's okay, Billy Clyde. Your mike was off."
There wasn't much to do during the halftime but eat another hotdog, drink more coffee, and go to the john. Not until the last two minutes before the second-half kickoff. That's when Kathy told me to put on the headset and watch the monitor.
On the headset I heard the voice of Brent Musburger, who was back in New York in a studio. He seemed to be saying that CBS's newest color man—me—had raised the flag on Iwo Jima, invented the cure for cancer, and in my spare time had taught crippled children how to walk again. And on the monitor I watched as Old 23, wearing a TCU uniform, broke,loose for several long gains against the Arkansas Razorbacks, Texas Aggies, and Baylor Bears. Old 23 then appeared in a New York Giants uniform and broke loose for several long gains against the Minnesota Vikings, Dallas Cowboys, and Philadelphia Eagles. Next, Old 23 was in slow motion, scaling up the ass of Puddin Patterson and diving into the end zone to score the winning touchdown against the dogass Jets in the Super Bowl. Finally, Old 23, in a clip from a home movie, was out on the terrace of his Manhattan apartment, hugging, kissing, and having a laugh with a windblown Barbara Jane Bookman.
"You're live with Brent," said Kathy, as the cameraman in the booth wheeled the lens toward me.
Looking away from the camera, I said, "Hello, Brent. We've got a gut-bustin' sidewinder out here in Green Bay."
There was static on the headset. I couldn't hear the reply. I shrugged at Kathy. She shrugged back.
"Just vamp," she said.
I frowned.
"Say something... anything!"
"Brent?" I said into my equipment mike. "I appreciate the insert. Sorry they left out the stuff about the Viet Namese refugees I've adopted and all the civil rights legislation I've passed, but tell everybody thank you."
The third quarter of the Redskins-Green Bay game was hi
ghlighted by Dreamer Tatum's defensive play.
Dreamer managed to be tying his shoelace when Tommy Maples, a Green Bay receiver, caught a flat pass and scored from 35 yards out. In his own end zone, Dreamer juggled a sure interception into the hands of the Packers' tight end. Touchdown, Green Bay. The fastest Dreamer ran was when he and a teammate, Jamie Brock, took off in pursuit of Green Bay's Edgar Morris, who broke clear on a dive play and went 75 yards for a touchdown. Dreamer didn't catch the Green Bay runner, but he did catch Jamie Brock, tripping him just as the Packer was about to be overtaken.
In between these awesome maneuvers, Dreamer acted like a man in a frenzy. Before the ball would be snapped, he would hop around in a nervous fit, looking as if he had never been so eager to hit somebody.
This moved Larry Hoage to a higher decibel level.
"What a competitor!" he raved. "You don't close the barn door on that fella, no, sir! Dreamer Tatum is some kind of football player!"
Charlie Teasdale kept trying to put the Redskins back in the game, but Washington couldn't take advantage of the penalty flags he threw at the Green Bay defense.
From the control truck, Mike Rash asked if I wanted to make a comment on the officiating.
I waited for the right moment. It came when Charlie resorted to an obscure call, defensive holding. He called it against Green Bay when Washington had tried a quarterback sneak for a first down. Who would a defense hold on a play like that—and why—even if it had time?
On the air, I said, "If Charlie Teasdale's flag stays on the ground much longer, they're gonna have to send out for plant food."
