MASH 09 MASH goes to Vienna

by Richard Hooker+William Butterworth

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Don Rhotten replied, his eyes narrowing.

  “It’s an adjective, Don,” Waldo Maldemer offered. “Existing, constituted, or carried on between nations...”

  “Shut up, Waldo,” Seymour G. Schwartz said.

  “I think I know what you dirty bloppers are up to,” Don Rhotten said. “And the answer is ‘no.’ ”

  “I don’t have any idea what you mean, Big Bunny,” Little Bunny said. “Do you know what Don is talking about, Waldo?”

  “I would say, Wesley, that he has surmised our purpose in coming here,” Waldo Maldemer replied.

  “Shut up, Waldo,” Seymour G: Schwartz said.

  “If you guys came here to talk me into leaving New York,” Don Rhotten said, rising to his full height of five feet, six-and-one-half inches, “you got another think coming.”

  “Don-Baby,” Wesley St. James said, “think about it. How are you going to be an international television newscaster if you never leave New York?”

  “I’ll fake it,” Don Rhotten replied immediately. “The way the other guys do. Rear projection. The engineers can work it out.”

  “That’s not the same thing as the real thing, Don,” Seymour G. Schwartz said.

  “You know it isn’t,” Don Rhotten said. “Bleep the real thing.”

  “What have you got against a little trip, Don?” Wesley St. James said.

  “You know bleeping well what I’ve got against it,” Don Rhotten said. “You know what happens everytime I get out of New York.”

  “I forget,” Wesley St. James said. “Tell me, Big Bunny.”

  “O.K. Seymour told me I had to go to Israel. So what happened? I got sand under my rug, that’s what happened.”

  “He’s right,” Waldo Maldemer said. “I remember the incident vividly.”

  “Shut up, Waldo,” Seymour G. Schwartz said.

  “And then I went to Morocco. They put me in jail in Morocco.”

  “And what happened in jail?” Wesley St. James said. “What nice thing happened in jail, Don? ’Fess up.”

  “O.K.,” Don Rhotten said, “so I met Smiling Jack in jail.”

  “Your best friend, right? If you hadn’t gone to jail, you wouldn’t have met Smiling Jack, right?”

  “Congressman Jackson* to you, Wesley,” Don Rhotten said. “Show a little respect.”

  (*Mr. Rhotten here referred to the Honorable Edwards L. Jackson (Farmer- Free Silver, Ark.), third ranking member of the House Committee on Sidewalks, Subways and Sewers. Although, in the interests of national security, neither the House of Representatives nor the State Department are willing to discuss the matter at all, it has been reliably reported that Congressman Jackson was detained by the Moroccan authorities in Casablanca, apparently because both the Moroccan authorities and the U.S. consul in Casablanca believed he was an escapee from a mental institution.)

  “No disrespect intended, Big Bunny,” Wesley St. James said, immediately and with fervor. “You know that. But the bottom line, Big Bunny, is that if you and that beloved solon had not been in the Casablanca slammer together, you never would have become pals, right?”

  “O.K. But so what?”

  “So you really came out of the slammer smelling like a rose, right, Big Bunny?”

  “I did not!”

  “Figuratively speaking, of course,” Wesley St. James said. “And, Big Bunny, now that you’ve had a little time to think it over, you really had a good time in Maine, didn’t you?”

  “You’re crazy, Little Bunny, that’s what you are!” Don Rhotten replied. “If you think my idea of having a good time is getting thrown in the Maine State Penitentiary with Waldo Maldemer.”

  “Come on, Big Bunny,” Wesley St. James said. “Didn’t the governor himself tell you he was sorry about the little misunderstanding? And give you a lobster, just to show there were no hard feelings?”

  “And that bleeping lobster bit me on the nose!” Waldo Maldemer said.

  “He was just trying to be friendly, Waldo,” Seymour G. Schwartz said. “He let go, didn’t he?”

  “He had to be pulled off,” Waldo said. “And you know it!”

  “I’m not going anywhere, Little Bunny,” Don Rhotten said with conviction and absolute determination.

  “Whatever you say, Don-Baby,” Seymour G. Schwartz said. “We’ll change the subject. What do you think of Taylor P. Jambon?”

  “A genius,” Don Rhotten replied immediately, “A man who understands the sacrifices we television journalists make in the pursuit of our careers. Isn’t that right, Waldo?”

  “Absolutely,” Waldo Maldemer. “One of the most astute minds of the age.”

  “Taylor P. Jambon said that you and Waldo were the creme de la creme of television newscasters, didn’t he?”

  “Well,” Don Rhotten said, “it’s true, isn’t it? Why shouldn’t he say it?”

  “Absolutely,” Seymour G. Schwartz said. “And what about Senator Cacciatore?’

  “Who’s he?”

  “Senator Christopher Columbus Cacciatore,” Wesley St. James said.

  “Give me a little hint,” Don said.

  Wesley St. James began to sing: “Santa Lu-chee-ah!” he sang. “Santa Lu-chee-ah!”

  “Oh,” Don Rhotten said. “That one. The Jewish fella.”

  “Italian, Don,” Wesley St. James said. “But you were close.”

  “The one who holds hearings on television every year and find fault with everything, right?” Don Rhotten said. “Now I remember. He’s got a red nose.”

  “That’s the one,” Wesley said. “What would you say, Don, if I were to tell you that Senator Cacciatore and Taylor P. Jambon are friends?”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “Tell him about Miss Worthington, Wesley,” Seymour G. Schwartz said.

  “You remember Miss Worthington, Don, of course?” Little Bunny said. “Miss Patience Throckbottom Worthington?”

  “The one who always reads Dickens’ A Christmas Carol on Christmas Eve?” Don Rhotten asked.

  “Right the first time, Don-Baby,” Seymour G. Schwartz said. “Like I was saying to Wesley, Don-Baby’s really into culture. Wasn’t I saying that, Wesley?”

  “I don’t remember that,” Waldo Maldemer said.

  “Shut up, Waldo,” Seymour G. Schwartz said.

  “What about Miss Worthington?” Don Rhotten asked.

  “Miss Worthington, Taylor P. Jambon and another great American, Senator J. Ellwood Fisch ...”

  “I know him,” Don Rhotten said. “He’s the one with the teeth!”

  “Right,” Wesley St. James said.

  “The one who bit the broad in L.A.,” Don said. “I saw the wire-service copy.”

  “Wash your mouth out, Big Bunny,” Wesley St. James said indignantly. “You’re talking about my senator.”

  “I tell you, Little Bunny, I saw the copy. He bit her on her upper thigh.”

  “Look at it this way, Don-Baby,” Seymour G. Schwartz said. “If she was a good girl, what was she doing with her leg in the senator’s mouth?”

  “The whole thing was blown out of proportion. It was nothing more than a friendly little nibble anyway,” Wesley St. James said.

  “Well, what about him?” Don Rhotten asked.

  “Tell me, Don,” Seymour G. Schwartz asked, “what do you know about APPLE?”

  “There’s red ones and yellow ones,” Don said thoughtfully. “And little sour ones.”

  “Not that kind of apple, dummy,” Wesley St. James said. “APPLE. The Association of Pup and Pussy Lovers in Earnest.”

  “Huh?” Don Rhotten replied.

  “That’s what APPLE means,” Seymour explained.

  “Oh, sure. That’s what Mr. Jambon is always pitching,” Don Rhotten said, “with that clever, clever jingle: ‘Send us a Dollar a Day, and We’ll Keep the Dog-catcher Away.’ He’s really a good man, that Taylor P. Jambon.”

  “Taylor P. Jambon needs your help,” Wesley St. James said solemnly.


  “Television stars aren’t supposed to give money to worthy causes,” Don Rhotten replied. “We ask other people to give. I thought you knew that, Little Bunny.”

  “I’m not talking about money,” Wesley St. James said.

  “A plug on the show? That’s up to Seymour, Little Bunny. How much are they offering?”

  “This is a special kind of plug, Don-Baby,” Seymour said. “One that only you can do.”

  “And I will hold things down when you’re away,” Waldo Maldemer said, “and give the good people out there in television land day-by-day reports of your travels.”

  “You’re a little early with that, Waldo,” Seymour said.

  “What do you mean, while I’m away?” Don Rhotten asked.

  Little Bunny, humming Tales from the Vienna Woods, began to waltz around the room.

  “Say, you’re pretty good at that,” Don Rhotten said. “But don’t try to change the subject. What did Baggy Jowls here mean about my ‘travels’ and ‘when I’m away’?”

  “We’re going to Vienna, Don,” Seymour G. Schwartz said. “Little Bunny and me.”

  “Bring me back a Wiener schnitzel,” Don Rhotten said.

  “And we want you to come with us.”

  “Bleep you,” Don Rhotten said. “I ain’t going.”

  “Here’s the bottom line, Don-Baby,” Seymour G. Schwartz said. “Mr. Taylor P. Jambon and Miss Patience Throckbottom Worthington are in Vienna to shoot some public-service commercials for APPLE.”

  “What’s that got to do with me?”

  “Senator Cacciatore and Senator Fisch are with them,” Seymour went on. “And we have worked out sort of a little arrangement, Don.”

  “Have fun,” Don Rhotten said. “Now, if you will excuse me, it’s time I got ready for my broadcast.” He reached into a drawer and came out with a small plastic box. From it, he took what looked like a set of false teeth. He slipped these over his own choppers and examined himself, with obvious satisfaction, in the mirror.

  “Nothing written down, of course,” Seymour went on, “but Senator Cacciatore has sort of agreed that if we make him look good in Vienna, he’ll lay off us with the blood-violence-mayhem business in this year’s hearings.”

  “Nobody pays attention to him anyhow,” Don Rhotten said. “So what’s the difference?” He was now bent somewhat awkwardly over the table with the mirrors, and the casual observer would have thought he was sticking his thumbs in his eyes. The cognoscenti, however, those privileged to know the secrets of TV magic, knew that what he was really doing was inserting his Paul Newman blue contact lenses. When they were finally in place, he examined himself in the mirror and winked at his own image.

  “I’m getting a little something out of this, too,” Wesley St. James said. “You want to help Little Bunny when he’s in trouble, don’t you, Big Bunny?”

  “Not if it means leaving town,” Don Rhotten said. “What kind of trouble?” he reached over and took the wig from the bust and carefully arranged it on his head. “You’d think,” he said, as he always said on this occasion, “that a country that can put a man on the moon would be able to come up with a rug glue that really worked, wouldn’t you?”

  “They’re working on it, Don-Baby,” Seymour G. Schwartz said. “But think of Wesley’s problem. You know how much money he spent promoting the new soap ...”

  “That’s daytime drama, Seymour. Try to remember that,” Little Bunny said.

  “The new daytime drama,” Seymour said. “And then what happened?”

  “Miss Patience Throckbottom Worthington had her tragic accident, that’s what happened,” Little Bunny said. “All that dough down the drain with her in a hospital bed, her leg in a cast.”

  “I keep getting back to this,” Don Rhotten said, and with his wig, caps and contacts in place, he looked like the famous face which beamed nightly from the tube. He looked, in other words, confident, assured, competent and trustworthy. The transformation was spectacular. “What’s in it for me?”

  “A quick flight to Vienna,” Seymour began.

  “Absolutely no!”

  “Where you do a couple of little human-interest features, as straight news.”

  “Let Hanging Jowls go,” Don Rhotten said. “I’ll hold things down for him while he’s away and give the folks out there in television land a daily report on his travels.”

  “The bottom line of the features, Don,” Wesley St. James said, “is that my star, Patience Throckbottom Worthington, is such a saint that she rose from her bed of pain to make public-service commercials for APPLE before coming back to my show.”

  “She really did that?” Don Rhotten asked.

  “I’d hate to tell you what it cost,” Seymour G. Schwartz said and then quickly recovered, adding, “that saintly woman in terms of excruciating agony to make this sacrifice on behalf of the nation’s starving pups and pussycats.”

  “That’s really touching,” Don Rhotten said, dabbing at his eyes.

  “And we tie her in with Cacciatore and Fisch,” Seymour said. “That gets Cacciatore off our back and sort of discredits the foul rumors circulated by his unscrupulous political enemies that Fisch gets his jollies biting hookers.”

  “I still don’t see why Hanging Jowls can’t do it,” Don Rhotten said.

  “Two reasons,” Little Bunny said.

  “Say,” Waldo Maldemer said, “he called me ‘Hanging Jowls’ again. He promised not to do that.”

  “It slipped out,” Little Bunny said. “No offense intended, right, Big Bunny?”

  “Why can’t he?” Don Rhotten pursued.

  “It’s right there in our contract,” Waldo Maldemer went on. “ ‘Mr. Rhotten agrees that he will cease and desist referring to Mr. Maldemer as “Jowls,” “Hanging Jowls,” “Sagging Cheeks,” “El Chipmunk,” and from any and all other derogatory and/or insulting references to Mr. Maldemer’s...’ ”

  “Shut up, Waldo,” Seymour G. Schwartz said.

  “... facial conformation,” Waldo concluded righteously.

  “Don-Baby,” Seymour G. Schwartz said, “we thought about sending Waldo.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Waldo said.

  “Shut up, Waldo,” Wesley St. James said.

  “But finally concluded this was your kind of story.”

  “Why?” Don Rhotten asked, his tone dripping with cynicism.

  “Because it calls for someone with an all-around image of youth,” Wesley St. James said. “And besides, Miss Worthington asked for you. She’s one of your greatest fans.”

  “Miss Patience Worthington is one of my fans?” Don Rhotten asked, beaming. “Oh, you’re just saying that!”

  “I am not, either,” Wesley St. James said. “Am I, Seymour?”

  “She said that, Don,” Seymour said. “She said, ‘I just love Don Rhotten.’ ”

  “Well, why didn’t you say so?” Don Rhotten said. “I will, of course, be happy to do what I can.”

  “We knew we could count on you, Don,” Wesley St. James said. “You’re booked on the seven-thirty flight to Vienna tomorrow morning.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  While things didn’t really turn out, at least at first, as bad as Lieutenant (j.g.) J. P. Jones, U.S.N., feared they would, her duties in Spruce Harbor could not really be described as being without certain problems.

  She had, of course, anticipated that Woody’s sponsors would give a little “welcome home” party for him, since he had confided to her at Annapolis that he really felt a familiar relationship to Drs. Pierce and McIntyre and their families.

  In her mind, even after she had been made privy to Woody’s noble lineage, she had seen a happy little family group, in paper hats, gathered around a family dining room table, blowing little horns and singing “Happy Birthday, Dear Woody, Happy Birthday to You.”

  What she got was the First Annual Welcome Home Woody Banquet and Clam Bake at the Bide-a-While Pool Hall/Ladies Served Fresh Lobster & Clams Daily Restaurant and Saloon, Inc., presided o
ver by His Honor Mayor Moosenose Bartlett of Spruce Harbor and featuring music by the Spruce Harbor High School Marching Band. It was vacation time at Spruce Harbor High, too, of course, and the only musicians in town happened to be the bass drummer, two tuba players and the glockenspiel virtuoso.

  While their rendition of “God Save the Queen” was perfectly satisfactory, their version of “The Star-Spangled Banner” was frankly a disaster, and when they proceeded from that (via “Anchors Aweigh”) to music for dancing (“Red Sails in the Sunset” and, for reasons Lieuenant (j.g.) Jones could not fathom, “Stars Fell on Alabama”), things grew worse.

  None of this discouraged the enthusiastic dancers. Woody and Beverly danced slowly and closely together, and it was quite evident that for all they cared the band could have been playing the Triumphal March from Aida. Doctors Pierce and McIntyre performed an odd ritual with their mates that both healers apparently believed to be the fox trot.

  Mayor Moosenose Bartlett periodically rose to his feet to deliver a somewhat incomprehensible political oration, ceasing only when someone poured a pitcher of beer over his head, at which point all two-hundred guests would applaud enthusiastically.

  The notion that there are women who are perfectly prepared, and happy, to go through life without a male at their side had apparently not reached Spruce Harbor, Maine. Lieutenant (j.g.) Jones was introduced seven times to a “nice young man,” “just the fella for you,” “somebody with really good prospects,” and so on, who in every instance turned out to be Richard Wilson, M.D.

  The banquet lasted until two in the morning. At six-fifteen the same morning, Lieutenant (j.g.) Jones wakened from a mildly disturbing nightmare (in which it was Dr. Wilson, rather than Alfred the dog, taking undue familiarities with her person) by what sounded like a diesel truck’s air horn outside her window.

  What it was was a diesel truck air horn mounted upon the oddest-looking vehicle she had ever seen. It had four tires, each eight feet tall and two feet wide. In it were Woody and Beverly and Dr. Wilson.

  “We’re going clamming in the swamp buggy,” Woody called up to her. “It’s jolly good fun!”

  As a person, she could not deny him his “jolly good fun,” and as a naval officer it was clearly her duty to accompany him. She had been warned, of course, that she could expect to make, in the course of her naval career, many personal sacrifices. But in her wildest dreams, she had not considered that these sacrifices would entail mucking around on the Spruce Harbor mud flats rooting out clams, up to her knees and elbows in black goop, while an enormous dog and a male chauvinist looked down at her from a swamp buggy, their eyes full of unabashed love.