Captain Saturday

by Robert Inman

  “Ah. Yes,” Will said agreeably.

  “Spectrum Broadcasting has bought Channel Seven.”

  Will stared, struck momentarily dumb. It registered, but it didn’t. Then it did. Finally he managed to croak, “You’ve sold the station?”

  “Yes.” Old Man Simpson slumped in his chair, a look of exquisite, pained weariness on his face. His voice was barely above a whisper. “I’ve sold the station.”

  Another long silence, broken only by the faint rumble of traffic out on nearby Wade Avenue, the drone of a mower manicuring the sweep of lawn between Wade and the building. Old Man Simpson liked things neat and orderly. Or had. This had the smell and feel of rank mess. Chaos.

  Krupp fished a sheaf of papers out of the briefcase. Old Man Simpson turned his head away and stared out the window. Will felt a wrenching pang of sympathy. Channel Seven had been Simpson’s life. He had put the station on the air, had nurtured it for almost fifty years. And now this. Why?

  Will started to speak, to ask, to offer some sort of lame condolence. But Krupp interrupted. “Mr. Baggett,” he said, “Spectrum Broadcasting will be making some changes.”

  “I’ll do this!” Old Man Simpson commanded, suddenly rousing himself with a flash of his old spunk and fixing Krupp with a no-nonsense look.

  Krupp shrugged and let the papers fall to the table. He sat back, crossing his legs, gesturing to Simpson and then folding his hands in his lap. “Okay. You do this.”

  Simpson turned to Will. He took quite a long time to gather himself, and when he finally spoke his voice was gently mournful. “The new owners will not be picking up your contract.”

  “There is no contract,” Krupp said.

  “Shut up,” Simpson barked. Krupp shrugged again. It seemed to be his best gesture.

  Will felt light-headed. He gripped the arms of the chair to keep from sliding out onto the floor, or perhaps floating off toward the ceiling. He looked from Simpson to Krupp and back to Simpson. He tried his voice. Nothing there. Finally, “What…”

  The strain was mighty on the old man’s face, palpable and awful. He spoke slowly, deliberately, measuring out the words like bitter pills. “Will, you’ve been working without a contract…”

  “Waiting for you…”

  “I know. My fault. But even if we had one, it would just delay the…” a bleak glance at Krupp, “…inevitable. As you know, all of our contracts include a clause that says if a new owner comes in, they don’t have to assume existing contracts.”

  Will’s mind pinwheeled. He had a vague notion of some wording about the eventuality of a sale. “Legalese. Standard boiler plate,” Old Man Simpson had called it. But not something to be taken seriously. It was unthinkable -- by Will, the old man or anybody else -- that the Simpson family would ever entertain the thought of selling Channel Seven. They had given birth to it and loved it like a child. And it wasn’t as if Old Man Simpson was the last of the line. There was a son, Roger, toiling now in the sales department toward the day when he would inevitably take over. A pleasant fellow -- not particularly bright, but adequate. It didn’t take a genius.

  “We at Spectrum have our own ideas about how to run a TV station,” Krupp interjected, and this time Old Man Simpson let him. He slumped again, defeated, dismissing it all with a weak wave of his hand.

  Krupp sat perfectly still, perfectly at ease, only his mouth moving. “We’re looking at every aspect of the operation with an eye toward cutting expenses and improving profit margins. Our initial impression is that certain aspects of the salary structure here are out of line. A condition of our purchase is that they be brought into line by the time the sale is approved by the FCC. Since you are working without a contract, Mister Baggett, we have decided that your services will be terminated.” It sounded rehearsed. How many times and in how many TV stations had Arthur Krupp done this recitation?

  Will gasped for breath. His bowels lurched. He felt nauseous. “You can’t do that,” he said.

  “Yes we can.” Krupp looked at Old Man Simpson, who looked at Will for a long moment and then closed his eyes and gave the barest of nods.

  “We will be making an announcement to the local media,” Krupp said, “about our purchase and your departure.”

  It dawned on Will that he meant right now. No grace period, no weeks to prepare his audience and himself for a rupture, to make arrangements, to alter his life from the straight, sure track it had been on. It was sudden, swift derailment. And Old Man Simpson was sitting there letting them do it.

  Will found himself suddenly on his feet, spewing anger, arm thrust, finger pointing like a lightning bolt at Krupp. “You’ll regret this,” he cried. “I’ll go to the competition and we’ll whip your ass.”

  “No you won’t,” Krupp said mildly, impervious to lightning. “Your contract,” he picked up the papers from the table, “has a non-compete clause, Mister Baggett.” He flipped to a back page and read: “For a period of one year following the expiration or other termination of this agreement, contractee shall not be employed by or appear on the airwaves of any other television or radio station within one hundred miles of Raleigh, North Carolina, nor shall in any way endorse, assist, or otherwise be associated with any other television or radio station in said area in any way that would bring material damage to Channel Seven in its competitive operations.” He looked up at Will. “Spectrum will enforce that clause to the fullest extent of the law.”

  “You sonofabitch,” Will said softly.

  Krupp blinked, but that was all. “We are prepared to make a generous severance offer.” He reached into the briefcase for two more pieces of paper. One of them was a check. “Fifty thousand dollars. In return for which,” he held up the other paper, “you will sign a statement in which you acknowledge your long and happy tenure here and look with enthusiasm to exploring new opportunities.”

  Will spun toward the door, and as he walked through it he heard Krupp call out, “The offer’s good for twenty-four hours, Mister Baggett. After that, you can kiss our ass.”

  Old Man Simpson caught him in the hallway, limping along on the cane. “Will. Will!”

  Will turned on him -- numb with shock, hurt, betrayal. Just as Simpson reached him, a secretary emerged from the Program Director’s office nearby, started to speak, then saw the looks on their faces and ducked back into the office.

  “Will, I’m sorry. If there was anything I could have done…”

  “I need this job,” Will gasped. He realized that there was a naked pleading in his voice -- both in what he said and the way he said it -- and that it might be the most honest thing he had ever said.

  Old Man Simpson put a trembling hand on Will’s arm. “I know you do,” he whispered. “I know that as well as anybody, and I know what you mean when you say that.” Will saw tears, threatening to spill. “I wish there were some other way, but there’s not. They made an incredible offer, and I have no choice but to take it. I’m old and worn out and sick, Will. I just want to go home and be quiet.”

  “What about Roger?”

  “He just wants the money.”

  “Do these idiots realize what they’re doing? Do they realize how stupid this is? What the public reaction will be?”

  Old Man Simpson shook his head. “I think they are of a mind to get the unpleasantness out of the way and then go on about their business. The sad thing is, it’ll probably work. People have short memories.”

  “They won’t get away with it!”

  Old Man Simpson looked away from Will’s fury. “Will,” he said,

  “I want you to calm down and think rationally. There is nothing either of us can do. Go home now. Think. And then come back and accept their offer.”

  “Home?” His voice sounded far away, as if he had indeed floated off, well past the hallway ceiling, perhaps a good distance above the studio building, up where the wind sang through the guy wires that fastened the transmission tower to earth, up where he could see his work, his life, toppling like an old Stal
in statue in a Moscow square. Home, the man said? This was home.

  “Straight home,” Old Man Simpson said. “Don’t go through the newsroom.”

  “Do they know?”

  “No. I’ll tell them.”

  “When?”

  “Before the early newscast goes on the air. Before the announcement goes out. I want them to hear it from me. At least, I can do that…” his voice trailed off for a moment. Then, gently, “You wouldn’t want to be here. Not the way it’s going to be. These new people will do business a lot differently. All bottom line, Will.”

  “You always managed to turn a profit without shitting on people,” Will said bitterly, then instantly regretted the profanity. Old Man Simpson never used it and didn’t allow it on his station. He had been known to yank network entertainment programs that used foul language and had once risen at an affiliates’ meeting to denounce the network’s entertainment division as “smut merchants.”

  “Excuse me,” Will said.

  Old Man Simpson flinched, looked away for a moment, then back at Will. There was a distance between them now. When he spoke, there was some of the old firmness in his voice. The boss, explaining. “Will, this television station has no debt. My family owns it down to the last paper clip. When a bunch like Spectrum buys a station like this, they borrow every red cent they can get their hands on. Load it up with debt. And then they have to soak every last bit of profit out of the operation to pay back what they’ve borrowed. That means cutting costs. And in a TV station, that’s mainly people. So at this TV station, a lot of good people are going to get hurt.”

  “This station has always been number one in Raleigh,” Will said. “They’ll destroy that.”

  Simpson shook his head. “If they can make more money being number two, or three, by cutting costs, they’ll gladly do it. It’s just business, Will.”

  Just business. Will thought of the kids in the newsroom. Most of them lived from one paycheck to the next. It would be an ugly, scary, demoralizing thing for them. At least he had twenty years of success under his belt -- a reputation, a bank account. But they were all victims and there were all kinds of loss, some that you couldn’t put a price tag on.

  The hardness went out of Old Man Simpson’s face and he grasped Will’s shoulder. Will could feel the frailty there, the tremble of flesh -- part emotion perhaps, but part physical ruin. “Will, there’s no way I can tell you how much you’ve meant to this place. When Sidney Palmer called me twenty years ago and asked me to take a look at you, it was the best thing that ever happened to the station. You’ve put so much of yourself into it. Nobody could have done more. I’m grateful, Will.” He gave Will’s shoulder a squeeze. “And you’ll be fine. You’ve got the talent and the drive. Stay calm, be gracious. Move on.”

  Will should have hugged him. He owed him that. The man had been almost like a father to him. But he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it. If he hugged Old Man Simpson, they would both cry, and neither needed to do that just now.

  He turned and felt Old Man Simpson’s hand fall away and he walked off down the hall and down the stairs and through the lobby and into the afternoon sunlight. It took all of his concentration to keep his eyes focused on the next step, the next door, to shut out the familiar sights and sounds and smells that had become so essential a part of who he was, why he existed. It was only when he reached his car that he let go a bit. He reached in his pocket for his keys and dropped them on the asphalt and stared at them for a long moment, and when he bent to pick them up he saw that his hand was shaking uncontrollably. He leaned against the car, bracing himself with both of his hands against the driver-side door like a man about to be frisked by the police.

  “Mister Baggett? You all right?”

  It was Dinkins, the security guard. Stooped, white-haired. His rumpled khaki uniform hung like a shroud from his frail frame. Old Man Simpson had kept him on all these years, long after he should have been put out to pasture. He puttered about the halls, straightened pictures on the walls, conducted an occasional tour. He had been at Channel Seven since it went on the air in the early 1950’s, and he was proud to say they had had only one “untoward incident” in all the years hence. A woman visitor had entered a restroom off the lobby, taken off all her clothes, and presented herself at the receptionist’s desk. Dinkins calmly pulled down a drapery, covered the woman, and called the police. He had never carried a gun and had only reluctantly in recent years accepted a pager. The newsroom kids called him Barney Fyffe and made jokes: If terrorists attack, Dinkins will divert them by dying. But Will liked old Dinkins. There was a certain tenacity to him, defying gravity and time. They exchanged pleasantries and inquired about each other’s families. Dinkins had a daughter in Zambia, a foreign aid worker. He returned from a visit full of stories and bearing a gift for Will, a small stone carving of an elephant. When Dinkins’ tiny wife had died five years ago, Will had gone to the house with a basket of fruit. Dinkins had been speechless with gratitude. He was back at work the day after the funeral. Like Will, he depended on Channel Seven. They called each other Mister Dinkins and Mister Baggett in cheerful mock-formality.

  “Mister Baggett?” Dinkins said again.

  Will managed to stand. “I’m feeling a little ill, Mister Dinkins. I think I’ll take the rest of the day off.”

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  Will stared at the pavement. “My keys. I can’t seem to get down there.”

  It took Dinkins a little while, too. But finally he retrieved the keys and handed them to Will. “Are you sure you can drive, Mister Baggett?”

  “I am,” Will said, straightening a bit more, “determined to drive.”

  “Not like you, getting sick. Never known you to miss a day of work because of being sick.”

  Will fumbled ineptly with the keys for a moment, found the right one, unlocked the car. “How’s your family, Mister Dinkins?”

  Dinkins broke into a smile. “Got a letter from my daughter. She’s thinking about coming home.”

  “Well, congratulations.”

  Will opened the door and eased himself under the steering wheel. His head swam and he sat there for a moment until the reeling subsided. “You sure you’re okay?” Dinkins asked. “I can get somebody to drive you home.”

  “No. I’ll make it.”

  Dinkins closed the door for him. Will rolled down the window and cranked the car. “Thanks, Mister Dinkins.”

  “What for? Ain’t done nothing.”

  “Well, for everything. Over the years.” Will realized he was again on the verge of tears. He put the car into reverse and started backing out of the parking place. He could feel Dinkins’ eyes on him.

  “See you tomorrow, Mister Baggett.”

  Will rolled up the window and drove away.

  *****

  He watched the six o’clock news. Brent was doing the weather. Brent, the weekend weatherman and -- until now -- Will’s understudy and substitute. A handsome young fellow, full of ambition. He had good teeth and hair and was working hard on his charm quotient. Tonight he was nervous and over-eager, talking too fast and stumbling over words, calling Michigan Minnesota as he pointed to it on the weather map. Jim and Binky weren’t at the top of their game, either. They mis-spoke, tread on each other’s lines, looked thoroughly spooked. The banter was forced, almost panicked, as if someone had told them they had damned well better be cheerful or they’d be out on their butts at 6:30. Their contracts, Will imagined, were written just like his. Watching it, he felt nauseated.

  They didn’t say anything about him until the very end of the newscast, and it was brief. Will Baggett was leaving Channel Seven for “other opportunities.” Brent had been appointed as the station’s “chief meteorologist.” Hell, the kid doesn’t know Michigan from Minnesota. And that was all. Not a thank you, not a kiss-my-ass. Oh, and by the way, they said, Channel Seven has been sold. That was Arthur Krupp’s doing, he thought. Old Man Simpson would never have done it that way. He h
oped Old Man Simpson was at home now with the TV off and a big drink of bourbon in hand.

  As soon as he switched off the TV, the kitchen phone rang. A reporter from the News and Observer. Will felt blood rush to his head. He came close to an outburst, then thought about Simpson’s advice: stay calm, be gracious. Well, shit on being gracious. “No comment,” he said calmly, and hung up.

  Immediately, his minister at First Presbyterian: “God works in strange and mysterious ways, Will,” Reverend Curtis said. “Shall I come over?”

  “No,” Will said, “I’m fine. Really.”

  He had no sooner hung up than it rang again. A woman who identified herself as a loyal viewer from Franklinton, twenty miles north of Raleigh. “What the hell’s going on down there?” she demanded. He started to ask how she had obtained his unlisted phone number, but instead he placed the phone gently on the counter and retreated to the living room just as the doorbell rang. It was Phyllis Durkin from next door. With a casserole.

  “I just heard,” Phyllis said, offering up the dish.

  “A death in the family,” Will said wryly.

  “I was raised a good southern girl. When there’s trouble, you take food. Are you okay, Will?”

  “Frankly, Phyllis, I’m just sort of numb.” He raised the lid on the casserole. “What is this?”

  “Chicken and rice.”

  He looked at his watch. It was 6:37. “Did you just make it?”

  “A good southern girl always has something in the fridge. Do you need somebody to stay with you until Clarice gets home?”

  “No. I’m okay. I just need to be quiet, Phyllis. Thanks. You’re terrific.”

  She turned to go.

  “Chuck told me about Rex. Congratulations. Getting a daughter-in-law now. That’s wonderful. Let us know what we can do to help. With the wedding stuff, I mean.”

  Phyllis waved over her shoulder as she headed down the walk. “Take off your coat and tie, Will. Get drunk. Be a private citizen for a few hours. I won’t tell anybody.”