by Allen Steele
Lester sighed. No point in trying to settle the dispute on the grounds of artistic merit; both shows appealed to the lowest common denominator of human intelligence. Ouch, That Hurts! was allegedly a sitcom, but if there was any situation in the show or any comedy, it escaped Lester’s detection. Essentially it involved a roomful of loud, stupid people screaming at each other and beating one another over the heads with frying pans, fire extinguishers, ashtrays, toaster ovens, or whatever else the show’s writer had dreamed up for the current episode. It made old Three Stooges flicks look like high Shakespearean drama. The Drunk Brothers Rock ’n’ Roll Keg Party was a variety show; its hosts were two alcoholic motorheads who sat around in a beer-splattered studio introducing one insipid rock video after another, guzzling quarts of warm beer and cheap fortified wine between videos, and conducting slurred interviews with musical acts like 101 Virgins or Wazted Minds. The most intriguing part of the program was seeing which of the Drunk Brothers would barf first, Guido or Ramrod.
In any case, neither show had sufficient socially redeeming qualities to make Lester feel comfortable about settling the dispute on the basis of aesthetics: both shows were fit only for morons. Another spitton ricocheted off the wall near the door; Quick-Draw ducked as brown saliva sprayed past the doorway.
“Why don’t I just zap them all and get it over with?” she hissed.
Lester was tempted—but he reminded himself that he was still trying to get the respect of the crew. Quick-Draw’s Taser would settle the argument quickly, but he didn’t want these guys to wake up with horrendous headaches, claiming that the new GM had used storm-trooper tactics on them. Getting tough in a situation like this was a no-win solution; like it or not, it called for diplomacy.
He shook his head. “Uh-uh,” he muttered. “Just cover me … and use that thing only if you think I’m about to get clobbered in there.”
McGraw looked apprehensive, but she nodded her head; she knew who was in charge here. “Your funeral,” she whispered, and added, “Good luck.”
That took him by surprise. It was the closest she had come to making a gesture of good will toward him. He was about to say something, but noticed that she was watching the room again, the Taser held upward between her hands, ready for fire. Wondering if she was right, Lester took a deep breath and walked into the rec room.
The place had been thoroughly trashed, as if a pack of speed-crazed baboons had been set loose. Tables were overturned, chairs had been thrown around, spittoons seeped their vile contents on the mooncrete floor. The combatants faced off from opposite sides of the big-screen TV (on which Guido was slumped into a chair guzzling a bottle of Irish Wild Rose, mumbling “Stay tuned for more rock ’n’ roll!” as his wild-eyed brother pawed at the plastic dress of some hysterically giggling bleached-blond ingenue). On one side were Jesus Cinque and his friends; the thin, pock-faced Latino held a chair in his hands as if preparing to hurl it at the opposite group, led by a Mississippi cracker named B.P. Carruthurs, known as Bee-Pee for short. The shouting died down as the general manager sauntered into the gap between the two groups.
“Hey! Lester!” Jesus said innocently. He self-consciously lowered the chair a little, as if to say Me? Throw this chair? Aw, c’mon—! “Listen. Les, this son of a bitch tried to …”
“Shaddup,” Riddell said calmly.
“Mister Riddell, sir,” Bee-Pee drawled, “the real cause of this is because Jesus over here …”
“I said shaddup,” Lester snapped. Not a word from either side. Okay, you’ve got their attention. Now you’ve got to do something with it.…
He paused to take a breath. “Gentlemen … and I use the term reluctantly … in the short time I’ve been here, I’ve seen a lot of stupid shit from you people, but this really takes the prize. If I had any sense, I would just as soon have Officer McGraw lock the door and let you kill each other.” He shrugged and rested his hands on the back of the only remaining upright chair in the room. “But since we’re desperate and we need you guys to do your job, I can’t really do that.”
There were a few chuckles from both sides of the room—except for Jesus and Bee-Pee, both of whom had murder in their eyes. “So why don’t you decide who gets to watch the show?” Jesus rumbled. “I mean, I can live with that, right?”
Riddell glanced at Bee-Pee. Carruthers was still glaring at Jesus, but he shook his head with the committed expression of someone who still wanted to watch his cultural icons, Guido and Ramrod. Lester pretended to think it over, then shook his head.
“No … no, I’m afraid that won’t work,” he mused, rubbing his chin between his fingers. “It’s a no-win situation for me, because if I choose one way or another, somebody goes away a sore loser and I get the blame.” He sighed and shook his head. “There’s only one way to handle this.…”
Riddell suddenly grabbed the chair he had been leaning on and swung it up over his head. Everyone immediately backed away, certain that he was about to hurl it at them, but instead Lester turned toward the TV itself. “If you don’t make up your minds in one minute,” he said, “I’m going to throw it right through the screen.”
Everyone stared at him in utter disbelief. “Hey, man, you wouldn’t dare …” Jesus began.
“I wouldn’t?” Still holding the chair above his head, Lester twitched his arms a little, as if practicing for his throw. “I don’t watch TV, so I don’t care one way or another if the thing’s wrecked. Sixty seconds … fifty-nine … fifty-eight …”
Bee-Pee grinned. “Yeah, but if you try that, what’s to stop us from taking you down first?”
Good point. Lester hadn’t thought of that. Yet before he could muster a reply, he heard Quick-Draw stride across the room to stand behind him. She didn’t say anything, but when he glanced over his shoulder he saw her holding her Taser in firing position, swiveling her hips to point the weapon first one way, then another.
“Need I say more?” he murmured. “Fifty … forty-nine … forty-eight … forty-seven …”
“You’re crazy as shit,” someone behind Jesus murmured.
“Yeah, I’m crazy,” Riddell said. “You guys are driving me out of my fucking mind. Don’t you think this is a good way of getting back? Thirty … twenty-nine … twenty-eight …”
Everyone shouted at once. “Hey!” Jesus protested. “You jumped the count!”
“My arms are getting tired,” Lester said. “So what? They’re my rules, anyway. Twenty-six … twenty-five … Better make up your minds, boys, I got work to do … twenty-four … twenty-three …”
Now both sides were staring anxiously at each other. Lester could easily imagine what was going through everyone’s minds: He won’t do it, he won’t do it, he won’t do it … but what if he does? I don’t want to back down, but if we don’t and if they don’t, oh Christ the TV gets smashed and then what happens?… how do you explain this to everyone else, like the guys on third-shift when they get back from work?… maybe we should back down … but wait, they’re beginning to sweat, maybe they’ll say something first.…
“Twenty,” Lester counted. “Nineteen … eighteen … Gee, my arms are sure getting tired. Maybe I ought to just chuck this thing and get it over with.…”
“No!” everyone screamed at once.
On the screen, some heavy-metal band was leaping around on a blue-lighted, fogged stage, cavorting around nude teenage girls bound with leather straps, lip-synching imbecilic lyrics having something to do with Satan screwing all the dogs in the pound and, oh baby, don’cha wanna be my bitch. Lester was tempted to pitch the chair through the screen right there. The music industry had been pandering this sort of adolescent crap for a couple of generations now.
“Fifteen … fourteen … thirteen …” Lester yelled above the noise. “Think about it, guys. The company won’t send us another set if I kill this one. No more sitcoms, no more mini-series, no more cop shows or doctor shows or lawyer shows. You’ll miss the World Series. You’ll never find out who killed what’s-he
r-name. Ten … nine … eight …”
You won’t throw it, he thought to himself. The TV’s worth its weight in water. Yet, at the same time, he knew he had to throw the chair. He couldn’t wimp out, not now. If he did, no one here would ever take him seriously again.
“Six!” he shouted.
“You won’t do it!” Jesus yelled. His hands were bunched into fists; he took a step forward, and stopped dead as Quick-Draw’s Taser swung around in his direction. “You’re not going to throw it, man!”
“Yes I will!” Lester shouted back. “I’m not waiting! Five … four …”
“Ouch, That Hurts!” Bee-Pee howled.
“Turn off The Drunk Brothers!” Jesus shouted simultaneously.
“I can’t hear you!” Lester yelled. “I’m going to throw it. Three … two …” He swung the chair back, getting ready to chuck it straight across the room. In his mind’s eye, he could already see the chair hitting the screen, punching through Ramrod’s smirking face, shredding the image … “I swear to God, I’m going to throw it—!”
“Ouch, That Hurts!” everyone screamed at once, a single voice of pure fear and desperation.
Lester stopped. The chair was still raised high above his head. Time seemed to have stopped dead. He looked one way, then another. Every eye in the room was fixed on him.
Then, very slowly, he lowered the chair to the floor and let go of it, then walked to the TV set and apathetically stabbed the channel selector with his finger. The scene instantly switched to a roomful of actors pummeling each other with rubber chickens to the beat of canned laughter. Funny as someone snoring during a eulogy.
Riddell didn’t look at anyone as he turned and walked away from the TV. “You guys are pathetic,” he mumbled as he strode past Quick-Draw and headed for the open door. “Ready to kill each other for a damn TV show.”
He got to the door, then turned around and looked back at the silent crowd. “The next time I hear about this happening,” he added, “there won’t be a countdown.”
The men in the rec room stared back at him. “Hey, Lester …” Jesus called out.
Lester stopped and looked around. “Were you really going to throw that chair?” Bee-Pee asked.
Riddell didn’t say anything. Instead, he turned again and walked out of the room. It was time for him to make an important phone call.
He was halfway down the corridor, almost to the sanctuary of his office, when he heard something he couldn’t believe. Actually, it was something he didn’t hear. There was a sudden absence of noise: The TV had been switched off; there was dead silence from the rec room.
Lester turned around to see Quick-Draw standing in the corridor not far behind him. She smiled and nodded her head toward him.
He thought for a moment about going back to say something to her. The impulse passed, though, and instead he continued walking to his office.
Honest, Les … I don’t know what to say. Arnie Moss, seated at his office desk, shrugged with irritating nonchalance. I mean, you know I would say yes if I could, but you know I don’t have that kind of clout around here.
Lester faced his fingers together on his desktop as he stared back at the phone screen. “Oh, of course not.” he said bitterly. “You’re only the vice-president in charge of lunar operations. No authority whatsoever.” He tapped a finger on a thick binder stuffed with computer printout. “Have you even looked at my weekly production reports? Or did you toss them out while you were emptying the trash cans and vacuuming the floors?”
There was a two-second delay before Riddell’s words reached Huntsville from the Moon. When they did, Moss’s face changed visibly. He glared at Lester. No reason to get nasty about this, he replied evenly, obviously forcing himself to maintain a bland manner. I’ve seen all your reports. Your people have done very well. You yourself should be proud of the job you’ve done. Those reports represent a lot of hard work.
“Damn straight it’s been hard work,” Lester retorted. He picked up the binder and shook it in front of the phone lens so that it filled Moss’s screen. “Lunar oxygen, aluminum rolls, solar cells … we’ve met the six-week production quota in all areas. These guys have been busting their humps for the last month and a half because of the carrot-and-stick treatment you’ve given ’em.” He dropped the binder back on the desk. “Okay, today’s the deadline. We’ve done our part. Now how about keeping your end of the deal?”
Moss was looking distinctly uncomfortable; his next pause went longer than the usual two-second delay. This wasn’t a situation out of which he could easily bluff his way. Like I said, Les … if this was something I could rubber-stamp myself, I’d do it in a second. Your people would have their bonuses with my blessings.
“Bonuses and reinstatement of production risers and shipment of nonessentials,” Lester pointedly reminded him. “You’ve got a lot of promises to keep, sport. They’re not going to be very happy if you dump ’em like this.”
Moss’s eyebrows rose. His mouth turned into a lopsided grin. Hey, it ain’t just me. You’re the one who took it to them. I’m a quarter of million miles away … nobody’s going to throw a plate of food at me during dinner in the mess hall tonight.
Riddell sucked in his breath. “They won’t do that. They know who makes the decisions around here. Besides, you’re not dealing with children up here.” No point in telling him that he had just broken up a fight over who got to watch something on TV. Lester shook his head and held out his hands. “C’mon, Arnie, level with me for once. Who do I have to talk to in order to get a straight answer about this? Ken? Rock? It’s a simple goddamn decision, for chrissakes.”
Again, a longer-than-necessary pause. It’s Crespin and Chapman and all the rest of the board. They’ve got to review your production figures, and you know what that takes. Meetings, memos, departmental reports, more meetings … you know this is a bureaucracy. Takes time to get anything done. You’re acting like my kid when it’s allowance day and he wants his five dollars.
“What do you make your boy do?” Lester shot back. “File a one-hundred-page report on how many fetal pigs he’s dissected in biology class?”
Moss grinned. No. He’s just got to show me his report card. The grin faded. There’s also the matter of the tug your pilot crashed, and the missing Spam-cans. They’re not satisfied with the final report you made. Look … I know and they know the Vacuum Suckers were behind that whole thing, but they were counting on you to prove it. You gave us this song-and-dance about a faulty electrical system and pilot error and stray telemetry signals, and maybe it was enough to get NASA off everyone’s backs, but the guys upstairs are still pissed off about the whole thing.
“So they’re pissed off. Who cares? That was six weeks ago. The piracy stopped, didn’t it? And besides, it doesn’t have a thing to with the six-week production quota and the bonus situation. I’ve just about …”
Again, Lester stopped and took a deep breath. He wasn’t getting anywhere by getting tough with Moss; he should have realized that his old buddy didn’t intimidate easily. Time to try a little old-fashioned groveling. “C’mon, Arnie,” he begged. “Tell me something I can take back to these guys. You’re right … it’s allowance day, and the kids want their bucks. Maybe you aren’t able to give me a straight answer right now, but at least tell me when you can give me something concrete. Next week? Two weeks? Monday? What?”
Moss sighed and looked away from the camera, apparently lost in thought. Finally he looked back at the screen. I’ll give you a call soon, Les, he said slowly. Despite the inexactitude of his answer, for the first time during their conversation Lester sensed that Arnie was being candid with him. There’s a lot of complicated shit going down here right now and … well, I don’t know if I’m at liberty to discuss the details with you.
Lester frowned; a shiver ran down his back. “Details? Arnie, are you talking about Uchu-Hiko?” He waited; no reply. “Hey, is this something with the Japanese? What the hell is going on down there?”
Moss avoided looking at the screen. Uh-uh. Nothing like that. Hey, I gotta go. I’ll get back to you soon as I know something definite, okay? He leaned slightly forward in his seat, reaching for the base of his phone.
“Arnie?” Lester said. “Hey, Moss! Don’t hang up! What are you trying to …” Then his phone screen went blank, replaced by lines of luminescent type which told him how long the call had taken, the amount of money it had cost, and how much time he had left on his telephone budget. Seventeen minutes on an AT&T comsat, he thought, and not a damn thing resolved.
Lester settled back in his chair, propped one foot up on the edge of his desk, and let his head fall back. Nothing resolved, but something learned nonetheless. Some bad kind of weirdness was coming down the road … but he was damned if he knew exactly what it was.
The Mouth of the South (Pressclips.3)
Excerpted from “Hellraiser—Harry Drinkwater, The Last Angry DJ In America” by J.R. Presley; Rolling Stone, November 7, 2023:
The radio disc jockey who later became known to fans and enemies alike as the “Mouth of the South” first came to public attention in 2002, when he was a second-year law student at Vanderbilt University in Nashville, Tennessee.
By his own account, Harry Drinkwater led an unremarkable, even typical, college career: attending classes during the day, studying in his dorm room or in the library at night until about ten o’clock, after which he sometimes wandered down to Elliston Place to indulge in his favorite hobby, watching new session-musician bands try their licks at the legendary Nashville rock venue, the Exit/In. Drinkwater’s ambition was to be a public defender in his hometown of Charlotte, North Carolina; that was his goal until the day he happened upon a student demonstration on the Vandy campus.
