Commoner the Vagabond

by Robin Ray

  Chapter 17

  If Commoner’s life appeared to be in stasis, the same could hardly be concluded for Milton Spruce. Standing in a spacious boardroom on the 30th floor of the Columbia Tower just a few miles away in the heart of Seattle, he was addressing an assembled committee which included a director, an accountant, a script supervisor, musicians, artists, writers, voice actors and assistants hired to create more episodes of Spruce Juice. Casually dressed in Gabardine slacks and a dark blue Mariners jacket, he was enjoying not only his position as head honcho but also the spectacular view of the city as well. Without a doubt, he felt as on top of the world as any successful television pundit could.

  To his benefit, after the pilot and initial episodes became popular, the TV network decided to try an earlier prime-time run. Now airing at 8pm on Wednesdays, the half hour show was a success and an additional season was purchased. Spruce, uncommonly stunned and amazed, was busier than he could’ve imagined. Ideas were being propositioned, studied and scrutinized left and right. Sketches were drawn on a daily basis. In his quest to keep the network gods happy, he made sure the show was timely, edgy and funny without going overboard. Spruce, used to being the man behind the camera, now found it exhilarating to be the one being interviewed and coddled by the news media.

  On a late-night talk show in the spring at Paramount Studios in Hollywood, he was asked about the inspiration for his characters. He stated they all just came to him, out of the blue, while he was working as a cameraman. The show’s humor, he noted, was a result of having lived dysfunctional lives where every little problem would get blown out to ridiculous proportions. He became so busy with Hollywood and the whole show world that his live-in girlfriend, Vicki, started to feel like an impediment. The few nights they did manage to go out to a restaurant were constantly interrupted by phone calls Spruce received. Leaving her alone at the tables while he went to the phone, she’d try to make herself look as small as possible. Finally, after months and months of being neglected, she packed a suitcase and took an 1100 mile, 20-hour taxi ride to her parent’s house way up in Issaquah, WA.

  Now, free as a bird, Spruce endeavored to make a mark with some of the single women he’d met in La La Land. His friends cautioned him to chill, but like a child with a new toy, he failed to listen. Even though he met his own deadlines at work, he still found the time and energy to traipse around some of the more celebrated hotspots in town. No place was off limits, from the cocktail lounge at swanky hotels on Sunset Boulevard to invitation-only bistros where they served food with names like Pâté albigeois, Braunschweiger with toasted Roggenbrot, and Cappellacci di Zucca.

  One afternoon, as he was standing outside of a Michelin-rated restaurant on Hollywood Boulevard with his new girlfriend waiting for the valet to bring his car around, a homeless man walked over to them with his hand out asking for change. The woman casually looked away from this all-too-familiar sight. Spruce simply glanced at the stranger and told him he had no money. The man ambled off. A few seconds later another homeless man with a slight limp came walking towards them from down the street.

  “Ugh!” his well-dressed girlfriend protested. “They’re everywhere, like roaches.”

  As the homeless man got closer, Spruce noticed that it was Commoner. Taken by surprise, Spruce turned his face in the other direction. Commoner walked over to where they were standing and eyed the two of them.

  “Go away!” the woman shouted, fanning him away with her hands.

  Spruce and Commoner looked at each other but neither said a word. A torrent of things to ask flew through the comic writer’s mind; specifically, what was Commoner doing in the City of Lights? Unfortunately, he found his tongue glued suspiciously to the base of his mouth. Seconds later, Commoner simply turned and continued limping down the block. As their car pulled up, Spruce’s girlfriend turned to him.

  “You look like you know that guy." she inquired. Do you know him?”

  “No,” the writer answered, nodding meekly. “I don’t.”

  Nearly a month later, Commoner, hitching truck rides from Hollywood back to Seattle, finally arrived at his destination, Carny's apartment in Beacon Hill. Knocking on the door, he waited patiently. Moments later, a man in his 40’s opened the door.

  “Yes?” the man asked.

  Commoner, taken off guard, wasn’t expecting anyone but his friend. “Is Carny home?”

  “Just a minute,” the man said then closed the door. Seconds later, Carny opened the door.

  “Oh, hey,” she greeted her friend.

  “Hi,” Commoner waved.

  She closed the door behind her. “Let’s go for a walk,” she suggested.

  When they started strolling up her tree-lined street, she noticed his limp right away.

  “What happened to you?” she asked. “Haven't seen you in a month.”

  “Some of us guys went to LA because we heard they'd built some new shelters.”

  “So, what brings you back? Didn't work out, huh?”

  Commoner nodded.

  “Boy,” she admitted, shaking her head, “when you set your mind to something, you definitely don't waver. And the limp?”

  “I was rushing to get across the street and I slipped on the grassy part of the sidewalk.”

  “You need to be careful,” she warned him.

  “Yeah,” he agreed. “It’s probably just a sprain.”

  “Other than that, you look good. I think I've put on a few since you've been gone.”

  “Who’s that guy?” he asked, motioning back to her house.

  “Hi name’s Barry. We’ve known each other for a while.”

  “He lives with you now?”

  Carny nodded. “You can say that.” She then stopped and faced Commoner.

  “You know,” she told him, “there was a time when I thought me and you were gonna be a couple. Did you know that?”

  “We had fun,” he agreed.

  “It was more than fun, Commoner. I felt comfortable around you like I could trust you with my life. You’re a really sweet guy, but I guess it wasn’t meant to be.”

  “Do you still have my duffle bag?”

  “It was falling apart so I trashed it. I did keep your books, though.”

  Nearly an hour later, he was walking back towards the downtown area carrying his books in a grocery bag when it started to rain. Stopping beneath a highway overpass, he placed all the books inside his shirt for safekeeping. Now, concealed beneath several layers of clothes, his entire torso resembled that of a pregnant woman, albeit one with a jagged bulge.

  Stopping at the mission, he stood in line for a meal. The surreal protrusion in his abdominal area gave several onlookers pause but none bothered to ask why it was so. After receiving his plate of food, he stood up by a wall to eat as sitting with all those books was an impossible task. All eyes were upon him but he didn’t seem to mind. When he finally left, there was much speculation among the denizens about his unusually large bulge. Some thought it was a tumor; others guessed it was just a collection of junk being toted around by a man with severe mental illness. A few weeks later, they saw him again and, like before, had the same jagged protrusion in his abdominal area. Out of respect, or perhaps even fear, no one asked him about it.

  An entire year went by. It was now the spring of 1999. President Bill Clinton had been acquitted by the US Senate in his impeachment trial, Michael Jordan had announced his retirement from professional basketball, and Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels was a sleeper hit at the movies. Commoner, having had no luck in finding a job, faced eviction from his Aurora Avenue motel. Several appeals to Catholic Charities and other services bought him time, but as the weeks passed, it became clear the end was imminent.

  He went down to his neighborhood food pantry one afternoon and, as he was leaving with two bags of groceries, saw a pickup truck pull up in front of the center. He, and a few others, watched as the driver, wearing a safari-type suit, got out carrying a folding sidewalk sign and placed it on the e
asement, or grass strip, between the sidewalk and the truck. On it were the words, printed in blue and red letters, ‘Now Hiring – Animal Lovers’. Beneath it were the letters ‘CLF’ as well as pictures of an emaciated cow and a monkey with electrodes sticking out of its head. Commoner walked over to the man in the safari suit.

  “Hi,” the man greeted him.

  “Hi,” Commoner greeted him. “I was just curious. What is CLF?”

  “Creature Liberation Force,” he answered. “We target animal testing labs, circuses, meatpacking plants and any place animals are being exploited and tortured in the name of science.”

  Two more patrons from the food shelter walked over.

  “I heard you guys are just thugs,” one asserted.

  “No, sir,” the safari-clad man answered. “Perhaps you’re getting us mixed up with the Animal Liberation Front. We’re not associated with them. Our tactics are not as aggressive. We prefer to educate both the public and the reprobates about the plight of these defenseless creatures and present alternatives such as green farming.”

  “What does it pay?” the second patron asked.

  “Unfortunately,” the man with the placard said, “all our sponsor can afford at the moment is minimum wage, but this is expected to increase as more sponsors come on board. Our organization is young but growing rapidly. We’ve even gotten recognition from some of the biggest concerns like People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals and the ASPCA.”

  “What kind of background do you need?” Commoner asked.

  “Nothing,” the man answered, “just a willingness to help your fellow creatures.”

  “Where do people work?” the first food pantry patron asked.

  “Here in Seattle,” he answered. “We also go to Spanaway, Moses Lake, Deer Park, Bellingham, Clarkston and, recently, Colfax.

  “Do they provide transportation?” Commoner asked.

  “Of course,” the man responded. “What’s your name? I’m Seth Byrd.”

  “Commoner.”

  “Are you interested, Commoner?” Seth asked.

  “I have to think about it.”

  Seth removed a business card from his pocket and handed it to him.

  “Act fast,” Seth warned him. “We have an operation going up now and need hands as soon as possible. Don’t miss out on this opportunity.”

  “The lingua franca of the desperate,” Commoner whispered to himself, pocketing the card.

  “Excuse me?” Seth asked.

  “Thanks for the card,” Commoner explained. “I’ll think about it.”

  As Commoner was returning to his motel room, he noticed there was a note attached to his door. Plucking it off, he read the words “Please see manager, ASAP!” Opening his door, he entered and stacked the canned goods on a table and the perishables in the fridge. Grabbing an apple, he headed out to see the manager in the front office. Mr. Yamamoto, a small wiry man in his 70’s, was sitting behind the counter just beneath the mail boxes. When he saw Commoner, he went to the counter to greet him.

  “Did you want to see me?” Commoner asked.

  “Sir,” Mr. Yamamoto began, “the owners understand your plight, but at this time, they can’t extend discounts to your room anymore.”

  “How long do I have?”

  “Three days.”

  “That’s it?” Commoner screeched.” That’s not enough time!”

  “Sir, I’m just the messenger.”

  “Sorry, Mr. Yamamoto,” Commoner apologized, softening his tone. “Oh well. It’s not like I’ve never lived on the street before.”

  “Don’t you have anyone you can call? A friend? A relative?”

  “What you see is it,” Commoner lamented.

  “I wish there was something I could do,” the manager stated wistfully.

  “I have one option,” Commoner announced, removing Seth’s business card from his pocket.

  “Good for you,” Mr. Yamamoto nodded.

  Commoner rendezvoused with Seth Byrd and three others at 7am the next morning in the parking lot of a drugstore on 15th Ave. NW and NW Market St. in Ballard just north of downtown Seattle. Riding in the center seat of their white van, he learned they were heading about 60 miles south to Spanaway with a quick stop to pick up a few other workers in Des Moines and Fife.

  By the time they reached Spanaway nearly two hours later, the van was filled with 15 cramped souls. Driving past a small airport and country club, they arrived at a sprawling estate sitting at the end of a quiet winding suburban road. The million-dollar home was beset on all sides by a high wrought iron fence. Well-manicured trees flourished all around the two-story house which, itself, was partially covered by climbing vines. In the front of the house near the cobblestone walkway sat a pond circumventing a rustic well. Two classic automobiles, a white 1957 Porsche Speedster and a light yellow 1929 Mercedes, sat just outside the garage. Seth turned to address the group.

  “Well,” he began, “this is it. We’re finally at the estate of Stephen Trevino. For those who don’t know, he’s the CEO of Spanaway Pacific Packing, the biggest meat processing firm in this area. They alone are responsible for the tons and tons of desiccated and wasted cow flesh, all in the name of profit.”

  Just then another van pulled up. Three women exited carrying huge placards on sticks and walked over.

  “Just in time,” Seth stated as he walked to the ladies.

  He turned to face the group.

  “Everyone,” he said, “take a poster.”

  Commoner and the other members of his entourage each grabbed a placard. Some had the words “Save our Animals!” while others were printed with “Stop the Cruelty!” Seth, walking over to the security panel next to the front gate, punched in a few numbers. When the gate opened, everyone walked in with their placards held high. By the time they reached the front door, they were all chanting, “Hell no! You got to go! Stop the cruelty, Trevino!” over and over. Seth knocked on the front door and rang the bell but no one answered. Two men from the group then walked around to the rear area as another van of protesters arrived. Within minutes there must’ve been around 40 to 50 people on Trevino’s grounds, some more unruly than the next. Commoner, confused by the progression of events, dropped his placard and stared at the agitated crowd. Seth, yelling at a duo who was attempting to destroy the well and pool area, felt his blood pressure rise when someone threw a rock through one of the 2nd floor windows.

  “Stop it!” he shouted, but his voice was drowned out by the crowd which had turned into an angry mob.

  Nearly a minute later, smoke started emanating from the 2nd floor windows to the side and back of the estate. More rocks started making their way through closed windows. Commoner wended his way through the crowd to the side where he noticed the back of the house was now on fire. Seeking refuge next to a tree, the tics that normally came when he was nervous increased tenfold. When the crowd began hearing fire trucks in the distance, they started dispersing.

  Running to their cars and vans, they were immediately cut off by the arriving police force. Seconds later, the street in front of the estate was swarming with police as they swooped in to make arrests. The fire trucks moved in through the disturbance, crashed through the driveway’s gate and drove onto the lawn where the firemen immediately leaped off and started trying to quell the fire. Protesters went scrambling everywhere, some trying to climb over the rear fence, others attempting to hide in the thick foliage around the estate. Those who did manage to scale the fence didn’t get too far as helicopters were able to point out their position to the cops in hot pursuit. By the time the news media arrived, 44 people, including Commoner and Seth Byrd, were in police custody.

  Many of the protestors caught had priors and received upwards of two years in prison. The two that were directly responsible for the fire received six years. Although it came to light that Commoner threw no rocks, he was still complicit in the general disturbance and received one year in jail.

  In his first mo
nth, he lost about ten pounds as he couldn’t bring himself to eat the crusty sandwiches or drink the state’s tasteless juice substitute. The jail doctor put him on a medication to increase his appetite but it did very little as he still managed to eat only about half of whatever he was served. Midway through his sentence, he became gravely ill as his weight loss was more than the doctor had first imagined. Hospitalized for a week, they pumped him with electrolytes and several liters of IV fluid. Around that time, Det. Vert came to visit him upon learning of his condition from a friend who worked as a corrections officer. Visiting approximately once a month, he brought him candy bars and pretzels. Eventually, Commoner started bulking up again, albeit at a slow pace.

  He spent a total of ten months confined at KCJ, his original sentence having been commuted to a shorter one because of good behavior. By the time he was released on Monday, March 27, 2000, Bill Gates had stepped aside as CEO of Microsoft, the St. Louis Rams had triumphed over the Tennessee Titans to win Super Bowl XXXIV and American Beauty had won the Academy Award for best picture the day before. And, although Commoner was completely unaware of it, he was becoming a pop phenomenon.

  Spruce Juice was just completing its highly successful and popular 3rd season on CBS.

  The show’s characters were hits, but the breakout character, Christopher the Vagabond, known for his unusual witticisms and outlook on life, was often seen as a metaphor for the uninhibited freedom most workers often never experienced. His likeness appeared on calendars, t-shirts, mugs, sweaters, posters, notebooks, Halloween costumes and even billboards promoting free speech. High school and college kids all across the country even had Christopher Night parties where people could enter if they dressed like him and brought canned goods for the needy.

  Commoner, hopelessly oblivious to all this, spent the entirety of the spring just trying to stay alive. Under the terms of his parole, he had to meet his parole officer once a month in his downtown office. The amount of times he would have to see him was indeterminate. He did learn that, with good behavior, he could be released in as little as one year.

  With the small stipend he received from public assistance, he was at least able to buy foodstuffs and other necessities. Since he was homeless, everything he bought had to be consumed at once or else risk getting spoiled or stolen.

  He returned to the motel he was staying in before his incarceration. Mr. Yamamoto, he soon found out, had died months ago. When he asked the new clerk about his belongings, she insisted everything was thrown out. The only item Mr. Yamamoto had kept was an art book. When she brought it out, Commoner’s eyes lit up. He told her the book was, in fact, his and could prove it by stating what kind of drawing was on each page. The clerk examined it and, convinced it was his, returned it to him.

  Leaving the motel, he walked to a nearby thrift store where he was given shirts and sweaters from their freebie bin. For $2 he was also able to purchase a knapsack and a few toiletries, including soap, toothpaste, toothbrush and a towel. Later, after securing a bag of groceries from a food pantry, he found a spot in the greenbelt of northeast Queen Anne where he rested overnight until he was forced to move in the morning.

  The next day, he looked for the ever-moving homeless camp and finally located it in the yard of a rarely-used church in North Seattle. With sweeping views of the city, it was located high above a hill just west of the University District. Neatly organized, the camp even had a manager whose job it was to oversee the general day to day operations of the site. When Commoner moved in, they provided him with one of their extra tents and rollup mattresses and gave him a pamphlet outlining resources for the homeless throughout the city.

  Because the camp could remain at a site for only 90 days, they moved it a few weeks later to a pier in the SODO area. The local news wrote extensively about their camp. Citizens for and against their habitat wrote long letters to the mayor, police commissioner, King County executive, Department of Social & Health Services, the United Way and Red Cross of King County, the governor and attorney general of Washington state and any politico that would hear them out. A handful of politicians, to their credit, did come out and claim they were trying their best to create permanent housing for the homeless, but for those in the midst of it, those with their feet in the mud, nothing had changed.

  The folks who moved to the SODO camp often joked they had the best of both worlds – spectacular views of Puget Sound to their left and the football and soccer stadiums they could never afford to their right. Although their camp was out in the open, it was relatively safe as neighbors never bothered them or interfered with their daily lives. In fact, instead of the campers being vilified, they were brought donations by the locals. As a show of solidarity and kindness, even members of the Mariners and Seahawks came by to drop off a turkey or two.

  During the summer, the camp stayed cool as the wind blowing in over the Sound kept the temperature at an even keel, usually somewhere near the high 60’s/early 70’s. Commoner even made a few friends while living there. Two of the men he encountered remembered him from an earlier camp he’d been in. They told him they recalled how he walked around with his large camouflage duffle bag and long hair framed by a fur-lined cap with ear flaps. They were also the same people who thought he resembled the character in the comic strip which eventually became a TV show. Like before, Commoner didn’t want to be bothered with such contrivances, and the two homeless men were wise to leave him alone about it. In regards to the press, however, that was a different matter.

  The homeless duo, one of whom was working on a law degree at Clark College in

  Vancouver, WA which couldn’t be individually verified, wrote several letters to the local newspapers and other media outlets about Commoner. After a few weeks, convinced no one was interested, they let the matter go. Then, one day when they were returning from eating at the downtown mission, they saw TV reporter Carrie-Anne Linville and her assistant speaking to several tenants of the camp. When they heard she was asking about the letters she had received about Commoner, they approached her and claimed authorship. They admitted that it could’ve been a coincidence that the cartoon character resembled Commoner, but then became convinced after seeing several episodes of Spruce Juice on TV.

  After a brief search through the camp, the reporter, her assistant, and the two homeless men discovered Commoner stretched out on a mat next to broken unused pier. Carrie-Anne asked him if he remembered her. He claimed he didn’t. She reminded him that she’d interviewed him years ago and her former cameraman was Milton Spruce, the creator of the highly popular TV show Spruce Juice. Commoner, angry that this subject was being brought up again, started lashing at the invisible flies at his ears. Carrie-Anne hugged him, whispered something to him, and walked him away from the others. After he calmed down, she told him she’d like to interview him on TV as she had been promoted from field reporter to news anchor. Commoner hesitated at first, but when she promised to make it worth his while by providing everyone in the camp with meals and new sleeping bags, he agreed. One week later, he made his television debut.

  Carrie-Anne introduced Commoner just after giving a brief report on a burglary that had taken place at a local mall. Walking over to an area where a large flat screen TV was set up, she met with Commoner who was handsomely attired in a black suit and tie. His hair was neatly trimmed and he was freshly shaved. And typical of the way he often looked at strangers, his eyes were focused downward.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” she began, looking into the camera, “you may not recognize my next guest’s name, but if you’ve seen TV in the past three years, you may have heard about the character which he influenced. This is Commoner on whom the character Christopher the

  Vagabond from the TV show Spruce Juice is based. Welcome, Commoner.”

  “Thanks for having me,” he stated, barely looking up.

  Carrie-Anne gently raised his head with her hand.

  “No need to fear anyone around here,” she said. “No harm will come t
o you.”

  Commoner, now looking forward, nodded.

  “How did you come by the nickname Commoner?” she asked.

  “It’s not a nickname,” he corrected her. “It’s my real name.”

  “Sorry. My apologies. So, how does it feel to be a popular TV show?”

  “I actually wasn’t aware of it,” he answered.

  “You have seen the show, right?”

  “I haven’t.”

  “That’s okay,” she uttered. “We have a clip.”

  As the overhead lights dimmed, Carrie-Anne stood to the side as a short clip from Spruce Juice played on the TV screen behind them. Commoner looked at his likeness for the first time while Carrie-Anne studied him. The clip was then followed by a shot of Commoner wearing his old duffle bag and fur skin hat setup. Seconds later the lights went back up.

  “See?” she asked him. “He resembles your old self.”

  “I guess.”

  “I know if they made a story about my life,” she proposed, “I’d be ecstatic. I haven’t spoken to the creator of the show, Milton Spruce, in years, but if I do, wouldn’t you love to be involved in it somehow?”

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “Merchandising, advertisement, comic conventions,” she maintained, “all in the sake of promotion.”

  Commoner shrugged. Carrie-Anne, he thought, was well-intentioned but, moving at the speed of light, simply leaving him in her dust.

  “Well, Commoner,” she said in closing, “thanks for being a part of our show tonight. The world is just a little bit richer when there are people like you in it.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said, unsure of what he had accomplished.

  After they cut to commercials, Carrie-Anne turned to him.

  “If I were you,” she whispered to Commoner, “I’d grab me a piece of that pie.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “Are you kidding me?” she answered. “Those fat bastards in Hollywood are getting rich off your likeness and you have nothing to show for it. I’d get me a lawyer and take ‘em to the cleaners.”

  “I’m not that kind of man.”

  “Well, you’d better start learning because it is you. That guy in the cartoon is you. I, of all people, should know.”

  Reaching into a pocket in her pants, she produced a business card and handed it to him.

  “That’s my cousin, Milt Linville,” she told him. “He’s really an estate lawyer, but I’m sure he could rig something up for you. Give him a call.” “Okay,” he responded.

  “Don’t sleep on it, Commoner,” she advised him. “You’re sitting on a gold mine.”

  “I’ll look into it,” he promised.

  “Good,” she grinned. “That’s what I want to hear.”

  Commoner returned to the camp a hero. Those who saw him on the 5 o’clock news cheered as he entered their humble enclave.

  “I didn’t do anything,” he cried.

  “Oh, yes you did,” one person objected. “You brought us hope. Sometimes that’s better than all the bread in the pantry.”

  “If you want,” another homeless resident said, “you can have my spot. It’s got the best view of the Sound.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Commoner affirmed. “In about a month we’ll all have to move anyway.”

  “Hey,” a new resident stated, “you have a little clout now. Maybe you can convince the mayor to make permanent housing for us.”

  “Me?” Commoner scowled. “I have as much pull as a cockroach in a diner. All we can do is hope for the best and hope that rains down in spades.”

  Over the next few days, the residents expressed doubts that anchorwoman Carrie-Anne Linville would be true to her word and deliver supplies to them. Then, one week later, the camp became inundated with crates of food and new sleeping bags. The residents, numbering close to 200, rejoiced when a truck drove up and delivered the goods. Carrie-Anne even came over with her camera crew to record the proceedings. She not only interviewed a few denizens but also asked for Commoner. Some folks claimed they hadn’t seen him in days as he often liked to wander about the city with his trusty knapsack on his back.

  The staff of Spruce Juice Enterprises was assembled in their familiar 30th floor suite at Columbia Tower for a pre-production meeting with an executive, Oliver Weinberg, from CBS. When he walked in he immediately noticed Milton Spruce was absent.

  “Is he missing again?” Weinberg asked to no one in particular. “This is the third time already!”

  “Sir,” the script girl attested, “he’s been under a lot of stress.”

  “Time is money!” the flustered executive retorted. “Not only is he holding this production hostage but he’s coming real close to a cancellation!”

  “Please,” the script girl pleaded, “give him time. He’ll come around.”

  “He’d better,” Weinberg lamented. “I’ve seen the drafts you guys created. I don’t mean to be rude, but your writing’s too logical. The humor is gone. You know what you need to do? Leave the intellectualism out of it. Why? Because stupid provides the most drama. That’s something Spruce knew that you guys are missing. Where is he?”

  Everyone looked at each other. The script girl shrugged.

  “I wish I knew, sir.”

  One of the show’s animators, Carson Elsy, spoke up.

  “Sir,” he told Weinberg, “we can always hire voice talent to mimic Spruce.”

  “I’m aware of that,” the executive said, “and I’m actually on it already. I’m ready to set sail on the new season with or without him.”

  “Something tells me it’ll be without,” the script girl guessed. “But will the show be the same?”

  “At this point,” Weinberg confessed, “I’m willing to say yes.”