And he gleefully took me along.
I’m going to spin another plate here, with your kind indulgence, a plate off toward stage left, and tell you that earlier this evening I entered Birds of a Feather and sat down at a little table near the back. Amy presented herself quite a while thereafter, having left me to stew in my own juices (an apt metaphor) for fifteen or twenty minutes. She pointed a finger, as though trying to place me. “The regular?”
“No, uh, half the regular. Just the beer portion, please. Amy.”
“Your bro’ isn’t here tonight, you know.”
“Oh, yeah, I know. He has plans and preparations to make. We’re going on a road trip.”
“Huh.” She didn’t ask where we were going; in fact, she enunciated that single syllable with such manifest lack of interest that I inferred I was never to bring up the subject of my trip, or travel in general, again. So it was quickly on to Plan B. “So … I read Barchester Towers.”
“Really.”
“Really.” Not really. I’d read maybe two hundred pages and scanned the Coles Notes.
“I’ll get your beer.” And then Amy was gone.
This wasn’t going well; indeed, the whole notion was misbegotten, and I’m sure many of you find it off-putting. There’s no getting around the fact that I was a few years older than her—more than a few—hey, let’s face it, I was an old goat, a bleating ungulate. But, um, maybe we as a society should be a little less sanctimonious as regards the workings of the human heart, and those who are condemnatory should book tickets for the Jerry Springer Show, where anyone can hurl stones at the slack-jawed sinners.
Okay, all right, perhaps a little too sensitive there.
Amy returned with my beer. “So…?”
“So?”
“So, what did you think of Barchester Towers?”
“Well, um … the names were weird.”
“Eh?”
“Mr. Quiverful. Omicron Pie. These are like teevee names.”
Amy placed her salver on the tabletop, slipped into the seat across from me. “Teevee names? What’s that all about?”
“Oh, well, in these litigious times, you can’t use real, realistic names on television. I couldn’t call someone, I don’t know, Jack Winston, because Clearances would come back and say that there’s a guy in Akron, Ohio, named Jack Winston, and he’s in the same business or whatever, and he could enjoin production of the show, so you have to change the name. You have to come up with a name that nobody has. Omicron Pie is good.”
“Huh. Interesting.”
Really? Was it? Or was Amy just being polite, in which case, why? Maybe I hadn’t lost too much ground that evening with Rainie.
“Yeah, I remember you saying you worked in television. Padre, right? With the star that—”
“That’s the one.”
“So … what’s your favourite teevee show?”
“My—? Oh, gosh. Don’t you have to—?” I gestured at the bar’s patrons; they didn’t seem to total more than about seven people.
“No, I’m good for a few minutes.”
“Well, then, I’ll answer unequivocally. The Twilight Zone.”
“Yeah! Great show. I’ll tell you what my favourite episode is, ‘A World of His Own.’”
“You’re not old enough to have a favourite Twilight Zone episode.”
“I’m probably not as young as you think I am. And anyway, you can rent all the seasons, you know, at the video store. I like old things. Old movies, old television shows, old novels.”
“So ‘A World of His Own.’”
“About the writer who talks into the tape recorder, right, the Dictaphone, and everything he describes becomes real. And then to destroy whatever it is, he just has to throw the tape into the fire.”
“It’s a good one, all right. His wife catches him with some blonde, and he tells her about the magic Dictaphone. She doesn’t believe him, so he throws the tape about the blonde into the fire and she disappears.”
“Then he takes out this tape that describes his wife, and it ends up in the fire—”
“Uh-huh, but remorse gets the better of him, so he gets on the Dictaphone and starts describing his wife, and then he has second thoughts—”
“And starts describing the blonde again. I like little twists like that.”
“I should point out, though, that the teleplay was by Richard Matheson. It’s not a Rod Serling script.”
“Uh-huh. And that’s important?”
“Well, kind of. I don’t know. What’s your doctoral thesis about?”
“I’m calling it The Power and the Glory; Heterodoxy in the Novels of Anthony Trollope. It’s about the conflict between spiritualism and social status in the clergy.”
“Oh, yeah. That’s what Padre was about, too. Except Padre was a pile of shit.”
“That guy was cute, though.”
“Yeah, he was cute.”
“So, Phil, I should get back to work. It was nice talking to you.”
“Yeah. Listen, I’m going away for a few days, but maybe when I get back, if you have a night off, we could have dinner or something.”
Amy wrote down her number on a napkin, shoved it across the table. “Sounds good. What’s the matter?”
“Huh?”
“You look funny.”
“Well, I’m… I’m just a little bit flabbergasted here.”
“Oh. Good. I’m all for flabbergastation.”
“And I’ve made quite a few dinners, and frozen them, and they’re all labelled, you know, chicken cacciatore or veal scaloppini or whatever.”
“I see. So the children only eat foreign food?”
“Why are you being so snarky?”
“Snarky? Moi?”
“Toi.”
“Well, it’s just that, you know, I feel this whole situation is bad enough without you treating me as though I were totally incompetent.”
“For one thing, I am only trying to be helpful. For another, you brought this situation upon yourself.”
“I brought upon myself the situation of you larking off to Mexico with your young lover?”
“Yes, you did. And lastly, do you realize that’s probably the only time you ever actually told me what was bothering you?”
“It’s the first time you’ve ever gone on a romantic holiday with your young lover. And do you realize that we never went on a romantic holiday?”
“Whose fault is that?”
“You’re saying it’s my fault?”
“You were always working.”
“I was always working because we always needed money.”
“And you resent me for that.”
“I resent your resentment about the fact that I was always working, yeah.”
“You know what? Maybe we should go talk to a ellor.”
“What was that?”
“We could try to work ou f these issues.”
“Something funny’s going on with my phone.”
“Even if we rema arated.”
“There are strange little blasts of silence.”
“Oh. M ou have another call.”
“Really? What do I do?”
“Put me on hold and answ one.”
“I don’t know how.”
“Hit the talk button again.”
“Okay. Hello? Who is this?”
“It’s still me, doofus supremo. Hit the talk button.”
“Hello?”
“Okay. I got a car.”
“Jay?”
“She’s a real beauty. A 1970 Dodge Super Bee. Three-eighty-three magnum, a 727 transmission …”
“What does all that mean?”
“Fucked if I know.”
“Hold on, hold on. Don’t go away. Hello?”
“Yeah, I know. Whoever it is is more important than me. Who is it, anyway? Your girlfriend Rainie?”
“No, um… listen, did you say even if we remain separated?”
“Uh … I may have.”
�
�But that would imply our separation is not a done deal.”
“I only meant that seeing a counsellor could only be helpful, even in separation. I certainly didn’t imply there was any chance of reconciliation.”
“Yes, you did, Ronnie.”
“That may have been what you inferred.”
“You’re seeking refuge in syntax. That’s a good sign.”
“Phil … I’m in love with Kerwin.”
“Is that so?”
“Okay, okay, okay, maybe I’m not in love with Kerwin, but that doesn’t mean that you and I have any sort of a future, except as co-parents.”
“Right.”
“It doesn’t.”
“Okay, babe, I’ve got my little brother on the other line. Or on the same line, whatever, I didn’t even know my phone could do this. I’ll talk to you soon. Bye-bye.”
“Bye.”
“Hello?”
“The big thing is this. At some point during the journey—I’m thinking on the return, near Sudbury—the odometer’s going to click over. Nothing but zeroes. Flat line. A brand new beginning.”
“It’s got a hundred thousand miles on it?”
“Almost three hundred thou. She’s a trooper.”
“Where did you get this thing?”
“Bought it from a musician friend of mine.”
“How much?”
“Two hundred bucks. A steal.”
“We’re doomed.”
“Hey, don’t sweat it.”
“I’m just worried about, you know, I think this may be a crime.”
“Trying to reclaim the spiritual integrity of your existence is all of a sudden a crime?”
“I’m afraid it might technically be kidnapping. I mean, I am the girls’ father, but if their mother hasn’t given her explicit approval, especially now that we’re separated—”
“If you want to bail out, bail. You don’t need a reason. Especially not a stupid one.”
“I’m just saying, maybe it’s not a good idea.”
“Oh, it’s a good idea, Phil. It’s necessary. All of these things—these things that happened to you, these memories—you’ve just been throwing them into a big pit. Covering them over with dirt. That’s how you been dealing with this shit. But the thing is, it’s all been toxic waste, man. You’ve destroyed the table water.”
“Huh?”
“You know what I mean.”
“The water table?”
“Right. So all the land is now, you know, poison. No healthy crops can grow.”
“Uh-huh. I think you might want to turn that metaphor loose now, Jay.”
“If nothing else, you should want to actually get a couple of details right for your goddam book. I mean, it’s an autobiographical novel, you’d think you’d want to get some authentic memories into it.”
“I’ve got plenty of authentic memories in there.”
“You thought their names were Tom and Tony.”
“That’s what you said they were!”
“Ted and Terry.”
“I guess it doesn’t matter what their names were.”
“Yeah, it does. It matters. Because, Phil, this thing has fucked us up.”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“Yeah, I know you wouldn’t say that. Because you’re an emotional imbecile, that’s why you wouldn’t say that. But you have fucked up.”
“Look, I may have made a few poor life decisions…”
“Shut up, Phil. I’m not trying to be hard on you. I fucked up every bit as badly. I’m a two-bit fern-bar pianist who can’t play a major seventh without weeping like an infant. Let’s face it, Phil, we both have a warped world view, and what warped it was two grease-balls named Tom and Tony.”
“All right.”
“All right.”
“But I still think their names were Ted and Terry.”
“I’ll see you Monday morning.”
18 | THE WINDOW
IN THE ARGOT OF FILMMAKING, THE LAST SHOT TAKEN EACH DAY IS called “the window.” Like much else in that curious world, the reason behind this is unclear. I myself endorse the theory (not that I don’t think it’s fanciful) that the term stems from the fact that at the end of many old romantic movies, when the couple kiss to seal their happy fate, the camera coyly moves away and ends up looking through a window.
Industry grinds on non-stop for several months in the television series business, so the daily window doesn’t generate much excitement. But when the schedule reaches the end, and freedom looms, the crew do get quite excited about the window, the shot that will send them off to various locations around the world where they can drink heavily. So the crew began to get jazzed and giddy when they were handed the script that was numbered “626,” representing the last of the hours, the twenty-sixth of the sixth season, that were owed to the network. It was a six-day shoot, as opposed to a seven, because overages (mostly caused by Jimmy Yu) had forced us to cut corners. Moreover, it was a bottle show, a drama contained within the flimsy walls of our standing sets, largely within the small ersatz church. I wrote this one myself, and I was not challenged by the limitations, I was rather liberated by them. I had a feeling that I could write a little contained drama that would seem not unlike Playhouse 90 or any of those live television shows written by guys like Paddy Chayefsky and Gore Vidal. Or even by my hero, the great Rod Serling. Typically, I recycled material. So, as in The Hawaiian, I introduced into a quiet setting (the little church, in this case, as opposed to the hopeless barroom) a deranged lunatic who had just killed people.
I borrowed more than that. The lunatic’s name is Oscar, as it was in The Hawaiian, and the people he’s killed are likewise his own parents. I even cast the original actor’s son to play this newer version. The first Oscar, Michael Poole, had gone on to no great distinction (other than the fact he kept working, which is something) but his son, Nicholas, was emerging as one of the country’s great talents. He’d already been in two features. For the most part he disdained television work, but it was a pretty juicy role, his character being in virtually every shot, so young Nick signed on. The script was talky, as opposed to action-packed, and although this was not Jimmy Yu’s specialty, something sparked in him and he was brilliant. Yu moved the camera with sinister grace, pushing in on young Nicky’s face relentlessly, refusing to back away from the soul-tarring anguish. Watching the dailies, everyone got very excited; we would view all of the takes from every scene, eager to peel back layers and discover nuances.
And so the sixth day, the day of the window, found us filled with good spirits, and as there was no longer any writing to be done, and very few production wrinkles to be ironed out (in television land there are always some), most of the production staff crowded onto the set. Dirk Mayhew was there, and I know you don’t remember who he is, but he’s the Production Manager who had, for the past six years, done little other than complain bitterly about Jimmy Yu’s penchants and proclivities. On this day he was serene. “I have to admit,” Dirk marvelled as he watched Jimmy work, “the man is a genius.” The Supervising Producer, Stevie Medjuck, was likewise overbrimming with compliments. “That kid is just wonderful,” he said, nodding toward Nicky Poole. “And Milligan is doing the best work of his life.”
He was?
I hadn’t really noticed Milligan, or remarked upon his behaviour, which should have been a huge heads-up right there. Why wasn’t he industriously trying to steal young Poole’s thunder? Milligan was not a generous actor, by any stretch of the imagination. For example, he didn’t hang around to feed lines on the turnarounds. I’ll explain: let’s suppose that the scene being filmed involves Milligan and another actor, say, Paula Beecher, who was in my play Low Man and for that reason represented a bleached bone, albeit a smallish one, on my marriage’s cairn. First there would be what is called a master. The camera would be placed at a distance sufficient to film both Milligan and Paula as they had their exchange. Then there would be coverage. The camera would be moved closer
so that the frame held Milligan’s face, the exchange repeated. Then they would turn the camera around and film Paula. Unless this shot was composed so that some portion of Milligan was evident, perhaps the crescent of his glorious profile, Milligan would hurry off to his trailer. Paula Beecher would be fed lines by the script supervisor, and she would have to react to, usually, a clenched fist held aloft by a crew member, representing where Milligan and his haunting eyes should have been.
But on this day, the day of the window, Milligan never left the set. He stayed for all the turnarounds; moreover, he delivered his offscreen lines with emotion, encouraging the actor being filmed to dig around inside and come up with a little extra heat. Milligan even stayed on-set after blocking. (Jimmy Yu would choreograph the actors’ movements during rehearsal; then the first team would be released and stand-ins brought in for the purposes of lighting and the practice of camera moves.) During these intervals, which could be longish (lighting seems to proceed at a glacial pace), Milligan would drift around, nodding, smiling at people, sharing jokes with the gaffers—in short, all manner of little human stuff. But he was also radiating a kind of childish excitement, pent-up and powerful. When there was any sort of a noise, his head would snap around—as though he were waiting for something, as though he knew that at some point that day a parade was due, and he was ever on the alert for the clowns and baton twirlers.
This all struck me as a little odd. Then again, it was nothing that couldn’t be explained by a little miscalculation on the pharmaceutical front, even by too much coffee. (Indeed, the coroner’s list of drugs ingested was long and comprehensive. It included exotic fare like árbol de los brujos, but what really fucked Milligan up, I believe, was some twisted manifestation of the Holy Spirit.) I’ll admit that I wasn’t as focused on Milligan as it might seem, because it was impossible to keep one’s eyes off Nicky Poole. There are an awful lot of good actors, it seems to me, but only a handful of great ones. Marlon Brando, Sean Penn, Mickey Rooney … yes, I’m serious about the Mick. For one thing, think of the range. He can play young kids, he can play old, fat men. All right, that’s a joke, but you should endeavour to watch Rod Serling’s The Comedian, which was a Playhouse 90 starring Rooney as a comic who makes the lives of the people around him a living hell.
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