This will sound peculiar, even to people with a taste for the exotic, but I dreamed of working as a booker on The Jerry Springer Show. Though he is not widely appreciated among the mineral-water set, Jerry is the Meriwether Lewis of popular culture. He journeys each day into uncharted lands—to discover the poor child who declares, “I’m twelve and I take care of my 680-pound mom!” or to encounter the young woman who boasts, “I want to be a teen stripper!” or to unlock the riddle of “Zack: The 70-pound Baby.” That last was one of my favorite episodes, actually. What mother would not be interested in the saga of an eighteen-month-old toddler who weighs seventy pounds? An adventure in parenting, to say nothing of all those diapers.
What America secretly wonders each night watching Jerry is: Where do they find these people? Under what rock, around what bend, up what hollow do they live? And I wanted to know the answer. I wanted to be the booker, the man who conducted the initial interview with Clem, the fifty-pound baby, and decided: Nope! Sorry, you just don’t cut it. We’re gonna wait for Zack. I wanted to take the first unvarnished look at the woman who decided to tell her boyfriend, on national TV, that she’s really a man. I wanted to meet the woman who boasted, “I broke the world’s sex record!” (The magic number here, if you’re not a regular Jerry viewer, was three hundred men in a single porno movie.) These people seemed like miracles—too good for real life. Would they even exist if Jerry wasn’t there to tell their stories?
In all seriousness: There is nothing more uplifting on television today than Jerry Springer, and that includes Mobil Masterpiece Theatre. The astounding revelations go on, night after night, a pageant of the infinitely perverse and interesting ways ordinary Americans find to express themselves in this homogenized, soulless land. The mineral-water camp is always talking about the importance of diversity. Well, this is diversity, by God! “I’m in Love with a Serial Killer.” “I Stole My 12-year-old’s Boyfriend!” “My 15-year-old Son Wears a Dress!” “I Married a Horse!”
This is what we have left at the end of the American century. This is our special gift. Can you imagine producing such a show in a formerly great nation like France or Germany or England? Of course not. They haven’t the energy for it, the gift for self-invention. They are dead cultures, while we are alive—expectorating, excreting, mutating, evolving toward a higher and better state. But I digress.
FOUR
PAMELA QUIT THE NEXT DAY. THAT SHOULDN’T HAVE FELT like a blow—she was an incompetent secretary, and she frightened me—but it did. She was a quicker rat off the sinking ship than I, that was the troubling thing. I was losing my touch. “How dare you?” I said when she announced this would be her last day, or morning, actually, because she would be taking a long lunch. “Hey, asshole,” she responded. “Get a life!” No point really in continuing that conversation.
I called the owner and advised her that our merry band had been reduced by one—two if you also counted our recently departed features editor, Annabelle Paige. That should have pleased her—one less person to dismiss when Reveal went belly up—but it seemed instead to have the opposite effect. “It’s the end, isn’t it?” she said lugubriously. “They know.”
“Not at all,” I answered. “It’s not the end. It’s not even the beginning of the end. It’s more like the end of the beginning.”
“Please, David. I appreciate the sentiment, but you aren’t Winston Churchill, and this isn’t World War Two. Have you called any of the orthodontists yet?”
I had to admit that I had not. That plunged the owner deeper into despair. I was becoming concerned—I didn’t want her to jump ship before me, too. We had to hold on long enough for me to devise an “exit strategy,” as Henry Kissinger would say.
“I have a plan,” I said untruthfully, playing for time. “It’s something I thought of a while ago, but it’s just the thing we need now, to really cement our position as The Social Bible of Washington.”
“What is it?” she answered dully. It was sad, just listening to that depleted, heartsick voice. She needed to get laid. That had to be part of the problem.
“Here it is: We will create a member of the Washington social elite, from scratch. We’ll select someone, whoever we like—that lady with the big teeth who does the Chevrolet ads, say, or one of the women who didn’t get picked as honorary cochair for the Leukemia Ball—and turn her into a celebrity. First, we’ll run a photograph of her in Around the Whirl, dancing at a charity ball. Next issue, we’ll run a photograph of her giving a speech, wearing glasses and looking very policy, with people crowding around listening. Next issue, we’ll write a story about how she’s giving an award in the name of someone famous—Evangeline Bruce, very famous and dead—and we’ll photograph her with all the society matrons. Next issue, we get her invited to the White House, where we photograph her with the President and write a story about her private advice to the First Couple, which we’ll splash all over the magazine. Next issue, we put her on the cover—big photo, pearls, borrow a dress from Saks Jandel—with the headline WASHINGTON’S SECRET POWER HOSTESS. Then, pow! We expose her as a phony from nowhere and denounce her to the world. From rags to riches and back to rags, all thanks to Reveal. What do you think?”
The owner took a deep breath. It took perhaps five seconds for her to exhale. I had gone over the line this time. I was treating it all like a joke. She cleared her throat soberly. “That’s idiotic, David. You are coming completely undone. You don’t seem to understand that this is real. We can’t continue like this. We have no money, we have no advertising, we can’t meet the payroll. Without a new investor, we’re finished. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I said. “Money is important. We must find money. Without money, we will not survive.”
“But where will we find it?” It was a low moan of despair, followed by the inevitable infuriating sound of her crying. It’s outrageous when women lose control like that. It’s so calculating.
“Don’t cry,” I said. “We’ll figure something out.” But I knew she wasn’t going to call anyone herself. Any man who had the money to bail out her sinking magazine was more valuable to her as a potential husband—screw the magazine.
“You’ve been so good to me,” said the owner, still sniffling. “I don’t deserve you.” And that was true, I had to admit.
PAMELA WAS STILL AT her desk, doing her nails one last time before she walked out the door. She bugged me. “You’re fired!” I said. I ordered her to leave the premises immediately, or I would call the police. Her retort, inevitably, was to scream, “Piss off!” and tell me what an idiot I was; but she left, which made me feel better. Alone in the office, I began composing my letter to Jerry Springer. How to explain the special nature of my request? I was not just another aspiring television job seeker. I had read the essays of Camille Paglia. I knew the seven types of ambiguity.
“Dear Mr. Springer,” I began. “Looking back on my undergraduate years at Harvard, I think of the many outstanding individuals that fine institution gave me an opportunity to meet. James Q. Wilson, Nathan Marsh Pusey, Barrington Moore, Jr.—some of the intellectual giants who have justly given Harvard its reputation as the Athens of the modern world. Now, Mr. Springer, I am offering you an opportunity to join that select group.”
No, too much like a form letter. Jerry didn’t care about credentials. He was way beyond all that. He wanted someone who could help him stay on the cutting edge.
“Dear Mr. Springer,” I began again. “I believe I can help you locate a ninety-pound baby. This kid makes Zack look anorexic. Please contact me as soon as possible, because Geraldo and Ricki Lake may also be interested.”
Bingo! As I was putting the letter in an envelope, the telephone rang. “Pamela!” I shouted across the partition, waiting for her to pick up the phone—but she wasn’t there. I let it ring, once, twice, three times, waiting for the answering machine to kick in so I could find out who was calling. The voice was deep, sonorous, but slightly confused too, as if its owner wasn’t used
to making his own calls and leaving messages. It was Galvin calling again and asking me to call him back. I didn’t pick up the phone, even so. I wasn’t ready yet.
But as I listened to that voice, with its slight edge of uncertainty, I concluded that he could not possibly be calling to complain about my article. That voice would have been sharper, more certain of its mission. No, this was something more benign. He was initiating the call. He was walking down my fork of the road, just as I had walked down his. What happened as a consequence could not be my fault. The man had money, he had ambition—what he lacked was a larcenous, free-spending assistant.
THE OWNER ARRIVED A few minutes later. She rarely came to the office anymore, so this was not a good sign. She looked around at the posters of Mexican beach resorts and grunge rock bands and shook her head. What was the point of owning this?
“I came in to look at the books,” she said. “See how bad the damage is.” She installed herself in the big office in the back, which we saved for state visits, and emerged after twenty minutes, looking ashen. “We owe a hundred seventy thousand dollars, including sixty-five thousand to the printer, who says he will not print the next issue unless he receives a check immediately. I don’t know what to do.”
“Send him a check,” I said.
“But we don’t have any money, David. We can’t cover it.”
“I know that. Just listen to me. Call the printer right now and tell him you’re sending the check for sixty-five thousand. And send it—just as you promised—but don’t sign it. He’ll call you up and scream that your signature isn’t on it, and you’ll say ‘oops, I must have forgotten, I’ll send you another check.’ By that time, if we’re lucky and the mail is slow, we will have wasted a week. And by then, maybe something will have turned up and we can actually pay him.”
“Is that legal?” she asked, shaking her head in wonder.
“Beats me, but who cares? If anybody asks, just lie. You’ll get away with it. I promise.”
“But how are we going to meet the payroll?” she asked, still shaking her head. “I can’t send everyone unsigned checks.”
“What about barter? Why don’t you tell everyone that this is catalogue month. Instead of paychecks, they can order whatever they want from Williams-Sonoma, L.L. Bean, Victoria’s Secret. If they’re hungry, you can throw in fruit baskets from Harry and David. Then put everything on your Visa card and presto! Payroll is paid. Personally, I want cash. But tell the rest it’s barter or nothing.”
“That sounds reasonable enough,” she said. She was in a state of shock, I think. She took my hand. We were alone, at the edge of the precipice. It was a time for sharing. “I never loved my husband,” she whispered. “Not even in the beginning.”
I gave her hand a squeeze and let it drop. This could not continue much longer. The woman was unraveling. “There, there,” I said. “We’ll find some money.”
“I got a call from your friend Mr. Galvin today,” she said slyly. “He’s rich, isn’t he? Why don’t you ask him for money?”
“What did he want?” I asked nervously. “He’s not going to sue us, is he?”
“No, no. He was just trying to reach you. He said he’s left two messages, but you haven’t returned the calls. He was afraid something terrible happened to you. I tried to find out what he wants, but he insisted on talking to you. The man is rich. Call him. I’m not paying you to be neurotic.”
“Of course. I’ll call him. I’ve just been so busy. But I’ll do it today. Or tomorrow.”
“Listen, David.” She took my hand again. “If you can find some money, I’m prepared to give you a share of the magazine as a finder’s fee. What do you think about that?”
She could see the sudden eagerness on my face. Too eager. “How big a share of the magazine?” I asked.
“Five percent, dearie,” she said curtly. She had perked right up. She wasn’t going to give away the store, for God’s sake.
“Out of the question. Fifty percent or nothing.”
“You monster! You’re trying to take advantage of me when I’m weak. You’re worse than my husband. Ten percent, and that’s too much.”
We settled on a 15 percent share for me as a finder’s fee, with up to 34 percent going to the investor—nice trick, allowing her to keep control, 51 to 49—plus she wanted the investor to pay her an annual salary and bonus totaling $150,000.
I agreed. What the hell? It was easy to spend someone else’s money on a project they’d never heard of. I reminded the owner that we still needed a cover for the next issue. Something really hot, to make an impression on our new partner: “Kiss and Tell: Top Orthodontists Confide Their Success Tips.” Or maybe “Power Drapes: The Five Secrets Every Interior Designer Knows.” Or “U.N. Seen Nothin’ Yet: International Diplomats’ Travel Tricks—from U Thant to Boutros Boutros-Ghali.” I promised I would do some reporting or, if necessary, make something up.
I STILL WASN’T READY to call him. I walked home from the office—not a taxing trip, since it was just two blocks up Connecticut Avenue. But I was weary just the same. It’s not easy being insubstantial; there is a desire for mass, heft, weight in the world. I trudged up the avenue. Everything in my neighborhood had become insubstantial too—a land of coffee bars. We’d had a real grocery store here once, called Larrimer’s, with the best butchers in the city. They looked like old-time congressmen—fat and friendly, and they saved bones for your dog. It was a food boutique now, selling coffee beans and bottled pesto sauce. The only real things left were the bookstores and the gay nightclubs, and a strip joint, oddly enough—the loud, sweaty kind where men stick five-dollar bills in the stripper’s garter.
My apartment building was across the street from the strip bar. From my living room window, I could see the strippers arriving for work in the late afternoon in their blue jeans, their faces as welcoming as a suburban shopping mall, and the beefy men stumbling out late at night, too drunk to be embarrassed. If my building manager knew how much I enjoyed the location, he would have tried to charge me extra. He was standing just inside the door when I arrived home. He didn’t like me. I had been trying for several years to move to one of the apartments on the upper floors, facing south, which overlooked the city. Several had opened up but I’d never gotten one, and I was convinced the lucky tenants had paid the old toad off. Meanwhile, I remained on one of the lower floors, facing north, with my view of the strip joint and an Episcopal church just up the street. I could hear the organist playing Bach every Sunday, and the congregation singing the great Protestant hymns, tunelessly.
THAT NIGHT I HAD dinner with my real estate friend, Hugo Bell, at a run-down Indian restaurant below Dupont Circle. It was a dark, perpetually empty place with the unlikely slogan Romance in Dining. “Anonymity in dining” would have been more descriptive. I liked it because it was one of the few restaurants in the neighborhood where I could be absolutely certain I wouldn’t run into anyone I knew.
Hugo Bell was a shadow-dweller, even more than I. He was a black man—or, to be more precise, a honey-brown man mottled with flecks of darker and lighter pigments. His skin mirrored his soul, for he was truly a man caught between the racial trenches. I felt sorry for him, which always makes it easy to like someone—pity being the most seductive of emotions. He felt sorry for me too—a tall, lonely and highly repressed Jew who survived on a diet of envy and bile. That was our kinship.
Bell had attended a fancy private school in Philadelphia, then gone to Harvard, where we had met. He was brilliant, with an uncanny aptitude for numbers. He’d supported himself through college playing blackjack in casinos—placing what amounted to a bet on the racism of the dealers and pit bosses. They would never suspect that a black man could count cards successfully, he was convinced, and would therefore assume that he was just a lucky guy. And he won big, in casino after casino—amassing a stake of over $100,000 at one point, which to college kids seemed like a fortune.
Hugo went on to Stanford Law School, but he was too cra
zy with his black-white thing to work for a fancy law firm when he graduated. He felt like he was floating in a hot-air balloon and would just drift away if he didn’t chain himself to something real. So he founded a title insurance company on Capitol Hill, and earned a living doing the most ordinary, low-rent real estate work he could find.
The title insurance company gave him a steady income for not much work—I mean, has anyone ever actually filed a claim on their title insurance policy? But he knew things. That was his revenge on the white world. He didn’t want its money; he wanted to know its secrets—like the fact that someone named Carl S. Galvin had just bought two trophy houses. Bell studied real estate records the way a gambler will study the racing form at the track—looking for angles, tips, nuggets of real information disguised as mundane detail. He was an eccentric, by Washington standards, especially in the way he lurked at our racial boundaries. He would have seemed quite ordinary in Miami or Rio or Panama City, but here in the land of entitlements he gave off a whiff of danger.
I had asked Hugo to find more information about Galvin. I wanted to know as much about him as I could before my visit. “Never go into an interview unprepared,” the guidance counselor at the Harvard Office of Graduate and Career Planning had advised before suggesting that I interview with an advertising agency—a deeply worrying observation that helped steer me away from the concept of career planning. But Galvin was worth the trouble.
Bell had indeed unearthed two items that, after a second Kingfisher beer, he was prepared to share. The first was that Galvin had mortgages on both houses. Very rich people arriving in the city from abroad usually bought their homes with cash, Bell said. The second oddity was that the mortgages had been issued by an offshore bank headquartered in the Netherlands Antilles. “Nothing down there but coconuts and crooks,” he observed. “Nice people don’t go there for mortgages.”
The Sun King Page 3
