Laugh Lines

by Ben Bova

  Brenda looked upset as she got out of the righthand seat. “They’re taking his furniture!” She dashed into the house.

  Oxnard was a step behind her. It only took three long strides to get inside the foyer, but the rain was hard enough to soak him, even so.

  There were no lights on inside the house. The furniture movers had left a hand torch glowing in the living room. Oxnard watched them reenter the house, trailing muddy footprints and dripping water, to grab the other chairs in the living room.

  Brenda said, “Bill! And they’ve turned off his electricity!” She was very upset and Oxnard found himself feeling pleased with her concern, rather than jealous over it She’s really a marvelous person, he told himself.

  They looked around the darkened house for a few minutes and finally found Ron Gabriel sitting alone in the kitchen, in candlelight.

  “Ron, why didn’t you tell us?” Brenda blurted.

  Gabriel looked surprised and, in the flickering light of the lone candle, a bit annoyed.

  “Tell you what?”

  “We would have helped you, wouldn’t we, Bill?”

  “Of course,” Oxnard said. “If you’re broke, Ron, or run out of credit . . . .”

  “What’re you talking about?” Gabriel pushed himself up from the table. He was wearing his old Bruce Lee robe.

  “We’ve been following the reviews of ‘The Starcrossed,’” said Brenda. “We saw what a panning the scripts took. They’re blaming you for everything . . . .”

  “And when we saw them taking away your furniture . . . .”

  “And no electricity . . . .”

  A lithe young girl walked uncertainly into the kitchen, dressed in a robe identical to Gabriel’s. The candlelight threw coppery glints from her hair, which flowed like a cascade of molten red-gold over her slim shoulders.

  With a you guys are crazy look, Gabriel introduced, “Cindy Steele, this is Brenda Impanema and Bill Oxnard, two of my loony friends.”

  “Hello,” said Cindy, in a tiny little voice.

  Brenda smiled at her and Oxnard nodded.

  “We were going to have a quiet little candlelight dinner,” Gabriel said, “just the two of us. Before the Ding-Dong Furniture Company came in with my new gravity-defying float-chair. And the Salvation Army came by to pick up my old living room furniture, which I donated to them. And my friends started going spastic for fear that I was broke and starving.”

  “Is that what . . . .” Brenda didn’t quite believe it.

  But Oxnard did. He started laughing. “I guess we jumped to the wrong conclusion. Come on,” he held out a hand to Brenda, “we’ve got a candlelight dinner of our own to see to.”

  Gabriel’s eyebrows shot up. “Yeah? Really?” He came around the table and looked at the two of them closely. “Son of a gun.” He grinned.

  They walked out to the foyer together, the four of them, Gabriel between Oxnard and Brenda, Cindy trailing slightly behind, twirling a curl of hair in one finger.

  “Hey look,” Gabriel said. “Come on back after dinner. For dessert. Got a lot to tell you.”

  “Oh, I don’t think . . . .” Brenda began.

  “We’ll be back in a couple of hours,” Oxnard said. “We’ve got a lot to tell you, too.”

  “Great. Bring back some pie or something.”

  “And give us at least three hours,” Cindy said, smiling and walking the fingers of one hand across the back of Gabriel’s shoulders. “I’m a slow cooker.”

  It was just after midnight when Gabriel, Brenda and Oxnard tried out the new floatchairs. They were like an arrangement of airfoam cushions out of the Arabian Nights, except that they floated a dozen centimeters above coppery disks that rested on the floor.

  “It’s like sitting on a cloud!” Brenda said, snuggling down on the cushions as they adjusted to fit her form.

  “Takes a lot of electricity to maintain the field, doesn’t it?” Oxnard asked.

  “You bet,” snapped Gabriel. “And you clowns thought they’d turned off my power.”

  “Where’s Cindy?” asked Brenda.

  Gabriel gave a tiny shrug. “Probably fell asleep in the whirlpool bath. She does that, sometimes. Nice kid, but not too bright.”

  “So what’s your news?” Oxnard asked, anxious to tell his own.

  Leaning back in his cushions, Gabriel said, “You know all the flak they’ve been throwing at me about the scripts for ‘The Starcrossed’? Well my original script—the one that little creepy censor and Earnest tore to shreds—is going to get the Screen Writer’s award next month as the best dramatic script of the year.”

  “Ron, that’s great!”

  Gabriel crowed, “And the Guild is asking the Canadian Department of Labor to sue Badger for using child labor—the high school kids who wrote scripts without getting paid!”

  “Can they do that?”

  Nodding, Gabriel said, “The lawyers claim they can and they’re naming Gregory Earnest as a codefendant, along with Badger Studios.”

  “The suit won’t affect Titanic, will it?” Brenda asked, looking around.

  “Can’t. It’s limited to Canadian law.”

  “That’s good; B.F.‘s had enough trouble over ‘The Starcrossed.’”

  “Nothing he didn’t earn, sweetie,” Gabriel said.

  “Maybe so,” Brenda said. “But enough is enough. He’ll be getting out of the hospital next week and I don’t want him hurt any more.”

  Gabriel shook his head. “You’re damned protective of that louse.”

  Oxnard glanced at Brenda. She controlled herself perfectly. He knew what was going through her mind: He may be a louse, but he’s the only louse in the world who’s my father.

  “Has the show been cancelled yet?” Gabriel asked.

  “No,” Brenda said. “Its being renewed for the remainder of the season.”

  “What?”

  Oxnard said, “Same reaction I had. Wait’ll you hear why.”

  “What’s going on?” Gabriel asked, suddenly a-quiver with interest.

  “Lots,” Brenda said. “Titanic is receiving about a thousand letters a week from the viewers. Most of them are science fiction fans complaining about the show; but they have to watch it to complain about it. The Nielsen ratings have been so-so, but there’s been a good number of letters asking for pictures of Rita and personal mail for her. She’s become the center of a new Earth Mother cult—most of the letters are from pubescent boys.”

  “My god,” Gabriel moaned.

  “Goddess,” corrected Oxnard.

  “Also,” Brenda went on, “Rita’s apparently got her talons into Keith Connors, the TNT man. So the show’s assured of a sponsor for the rest of the season. She’s got him signing commitments ‘til his head’s spinning.”

  With a rueful nod, Gabriel admitted, “She can do that.”

  “The New York bankers seem pleased. The show is making money. The critics hate it, of course, but it’s bringing in some money.”

  “I’ll be damned,” Gabriel said.

  “Never overestimate the taste of the American public,” Brenda said.

  Oxnard added, “And the show’s bringing money into my lab, as well. People are seeing how good the new system is and they’re showering us with orders. We’re working three shifts now and I’m expanding the staff and adding more floor space for production.”

  Gabriel gave an impressed grunt.

  “What Bill doesn’t seem to realize,” Brenda said, “is that it’s really his holographic system that’s created so much interest in ‘The Starcrossed.’ Nobody’d stare at Rita Yearling for long if she didn’t look so solid.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Oxnard protested.

  “It’s true,” Brenda said. “All the networks and production companies have placed orders for the new system. Everybody’ll have it by next season.”

  “Then there goes Titanic’s edge over the competition,” Gabriel said, sounding satisfied with the idea.

  “Not quite,” O
xnard said.

  “What do you mean?”

  How to phrase this? he wondered. Carefully, Oxnard said, “Well . . . I made a slip of the tongue to a reporter from an electronics newspaper, about computerizing the system so you can animate still photos . . . .”

  “You mean that thing about getting rid of the actors?”

  “Somehow B.F. heard about it while he was recuperating from his seizure,” Brenda took over, “and made Bill an offer to develop the system for Titanic.”

  “So I’m going to work with him on it,” Oxnard concluded.

  Gabriel’s face froze in a scowl. “Why? Why do anything for that lying bastard?”

  Oxnard shot a glance at Brenda, then replied, “He was sick. Those New York bankers were pressuring him. So I agreed to work with him on it. It impressed the bankers, helped make them happier with a small return on ‘The Starcrossed.’” Call it a present to a prospective father-in-law, he added silently.

  “You oughtta have your head examined,” Gabriel said. “He’ll just try to screw you again.”

  “I suppose so,” Oxnard agreed cheerfully.

  But Gabriel chuckled. “I think I’m going to drop a little hint about this to some of my acting friends. They’ve got a guild, too . . . .”

  Brenda said, “Do me a favor, Ron? Wait a month . . . until he’s strong enough to fight back.”

  “Why should I?”

  “For me,” she said.

  He stared at her. “For you?”

  “Please.”

  He didn’t like it, that was clear. But he muttered, “Okay. One month. But no longer than that.”

  Brenda gave him her best smile. “Thanks, Ron. I knew you were just a pussycat at heart.”

  Gabriel shook his head. “It’s just not fair! Dammit, Finger goes around screwing everybody in sight and comes up smelling like orchids. Every goddamned time! He works you to death, Brenda, sticks you with all the shit jobs . . . .”

  “That’s true,” she admitted.

  “Leaves me high and dry . . . .”

  “You got your award,” Oxnard said.

  “Can’t eat awards. I need work! There’s nothing coming in except a few little royalties and residuals. And your mother-humping B.F. has spread the word all over town that I’m too cranky to work with.”

  Oxnard broke in, “Come to work with me, Ron.”

  Gabriel’s eyes widened. “What?”

  “Sure,” Oxnard said. “Listen to me, both of you. Why should you have to put up with all this lunacy and nonsense? Ron, how long can you stand to be trampled by idiots like Earnest and that Canadian censor? Come to work with me! I need a good writer to direct our advertising and public relations staffs. You can be a consultant . . . work one day a week at the lab and spend the rest of the time free to write the books you’ve always wanted to write.”

  Before Gabriel could answer, Oxnard turned to Brenda. “And you too. You’re a top-flight administrator, Brenda. Come to work with me. Why should you give yourself ulcers and high blood pressure over some dumb TV show? We can be a team, a real team—the three of us.”

  She looked shocked.

  Oxnard turned back to Gabriel. “I mean it, Ron. You’d enjoy the work, I know.” He looked back and forth, from Gabriel to Brenda and back again. “Well? How about it? Will you both come to work at Oxnard Labs?”

  In unison they replied, “What? And quit show business?”

  June 2007

  Introduction to “Crisis of the Month”

  “Crisis of the Month” began with my wife’s griping about the hysterical manner in which the news media report on the day’s events. Veteran newscaster Linda Ellerbee calls the technique “anxiety news.” Back in journalism school (so long ago that spelling was considered important) I was taught that “good news is no news.” Today’s media takes this advice to extremes: no matter what the story, there is a down side to it that can be emphasized.

  So when my darling and very perceptive wife complained about the utterly negative way in which the media presented the day’s news I quipped, “I can see the day when science finally finds out how to make people immortal. The media will do stories about the sad plight of the funeral directors.”

  My wife recognizes an idea when she hears one, even if I don’t. She immediately suggested, “Why don’t you write a story about that?”

  Thus the origin of “Crisis of the Month.”

  Crisis of the Month

  While I crumpled the paper note that someone had slipped into my jacket pocket, Jack Armstrong drummed his fingers on the immaculately gleaming expanse of the pseudomahogany conference table.

  “Well,” he said testily, “ladies and gentlemen, don’t one of you have a possibility? An inkling? An idea?”

  No one spoke. I left the wadded note in my pocket and placed both my hands conspicuously on the table top.

  Armstrong drummed away in abysmal silence. I guess once he had actually looked like The All-American Boy. Now, many facelifts and body remodelings later, he looked more like a moderately well-preserved manikin.

  “Nothing at all, gentleman and ladies?” He always made certain to give each sex the first position fifty percent of the time. Affirmative action was a way of life with our Boss.

  “Very well then. We will Delphi the problem.”

  That broke the silence. Everyone groaned.

  “There’s nothing else to be done”, the Boss insisted. “We must have a crisis by Monday morning. It is now . . . ” he glanced at the digital readout built into the table top, “ . . . three-eighteen p.m. Friday. We will not leave this office until we have a crisis to offer.”

  We knew it wouldn’t do a bit of good, but we groaned all over again.

  The Crisis Command Center was the best-kept secret in the world. No government knew of our existence. Nor did the people, of course. In fact, in all the world’s far-flung news media, only a select handful of the topmost executives knew of the CCC. Those few, those precious few, that band of brothers and sisters—they were our customers. The reason for our being. They paid handsomely. And they protected the secret of our work even from their own news staffs.

  Our job, our sacred duty, was to select the crisis that would be the focus of worldwide media attention for the coming month. Nothing more. Nothing less.

  In the old days, when every network, newspaper, magazine, news service, or independent station picked out its own crises, things were always in a jumble. Sure, they would try to focus on one or two surefire headline-makers: a nuclear powerplant disaster or the fear of one, a new disease like AIDS or Chinese Rot, a war, terrorism, things like that.

  The problem was, there were so many crises springing up all the time, so many threats and threats of threats, so much blood and fire and terror, that people stopped paying attention. The news scared the livers out of them. Sales of newspapers and magazines plunged toward zero. Audiences for news shows, even the revered network evening shows, likewise plummeted.

  It was Jack Armstrong—a much younger, more handsome and vigorous All-American Boy—who came up with the idea of the Crisis Command Center. Like all great ideas, it was basically simple.

  Pick one crisis each month and play it for all it’s worth. Everywhere. In all the media. Keep it scary enough to keep people listening, but not so terrifying that they’ll run away and hide.

  And it worked! Worked to the point where the CCC (or Cee Cubed, as some of our analysts styled it) was truly the command center for all the media of North America. And thereby, of course, the whole world.

  But on this particular Friday afternoon, we were stumped. And I had that terrifying note crumpled in my pocket. A handwritten note, on paper, no less. Not an electric communication, but a secret, private, dangerous seditious note, meant for me and me alone, surreptitiously slipped into my jacket pocket.

  “Make big $$$,” it scrawled. “Tell all to Feds.”

  I clasped my hands to keep them from trembling and wondered who, out of the fourteen men and women
sitting around the table, had slipped that bomb to me.

  Boss Jack had started the Delphi procedure by going down the table, asking each of us board members in turn for the latest news in her or his area of expertise.

  He started with the man sitting at his immediate right, Matt Dillon. That wasn’t the name he had been born with, naturally; his original name had been Oliver Wolchinsky. But in our select little group, once you earn your spurs (no pun intended) you are entitled to a “power name,” a name that shows you are a person of rank and consequence. Most power names were chosen, of course, from famous media characters.

  Matt Dillon didn’t look like the marshal of Dodge City. Or even the one-time teen screen idol. He was short, pudgy, bald, with bad skin and an irritable temper. He looked, actually, exactly as you would expect an Oliver Wolchinsky to look.

  But when Jack Armstrong said,” We shall begin with you,” he added, “Matthew.”

  Matt Dillon was the CCC expert on energy problems. He always got to his feet when he had something to say. This time he remained with his round rump resting resignedly on the caramel cushion of his chair.

  “The outlook is bleak,” said Matt Dillon. “Sales of the new space-manufactured solar cells are still climbing. Individual homes, apartment buildings, condos, factories—everybody’s plastering their roofs with them and generating their own electricity. No pollution, no radiation, nothing for us to latch onto. They don’t even make noise!”

  “Ah,” intoned our All-American Boy, “but they must be ruining business for electric utility companies. Why not a crisis there?” He gestured hypnotically, and put on an expression of Ratheresque somberness, intoning, “Tonight we will look at the plight of the electrical utilities, men and women who have been discarded in the stampede for cheap energy.”

  “Trampled,” a voice from down the table suggested.

  “Ah, yes. Instead of discarded. Thank you.” Boss Jack was never one to discourage creative criticism.

  But Marshal Matt mewed, “The electric utility companies are doing just fine; they invested in the solar cell development back in ‘05. They saw the handwriting in the sky.”