"And was it ever a crazy thing over at his network, Dave, from what I heard," said Reese, the NBC Sports coordinator, on my other side, in another of these chairs that seemed somehow disemboweled. Around Reese's distinguished eyes were two little raccoon-rings of soot, from his hobby's explosion. He looked to Letterman. "A power struggle in public TV?"
"Kind of like a… a bloody coup taking place in the League of Women Voters, wouldn't you say, Edilyn?"
I laughed.
"Riot squads and water-cannon moving in on a faculty tea."
Letterman and Reese and Shaffer and I were falling about the place. The audience was laughing.
"Polysyllables must just be flying," I said.
"Really. . really grammatically correct back-stabbing going on all over. . "
We all tried to pull ourselves together as my husband gave me some direction.
"The point is I'm afraid I just don't know," I said, as Letterman and Shaffer were still laughing and exchanging looks. "In fact," I said, "I'm not even all that aware or talented or multifaceted an actress."
David Letterman was inviting the audience, whom he again called ladies and gentlemen (which I liked) to imagine I AM A WOMAN WHO ACTS emblazoned on a shirt.
"That's why I'm doing those commercials you're seeing all the time now," I said lightly, yawning.
"Well, and now hey, I wanted to ask you about that, Edilyn," Letterman said. "The problem, ah, is that" — he rubbed his chin— "I'll need to ask you what they're commercials for without anyone of course mentioning the fine. . fine and may I say delicious?"
"Please do."
"Delicious product by name." He smiled. "Since that would be a commercial itself right there."
I nodded, smiled. My earplug was silent. I looked around the stage innocently, pretending to stretch, whistling a very famous jingle's first twelve-note bar.
Letterman and the audience laughed. Paul Shaffer laughed. My husband's electric voice crackled approvingly. I could also hear Ron laughing in the background; his laugh did sound deadpan.
"I think that probably gives us a good clear picture, yes," Letterman grinned. He threw his index card at a pretend window behind us. There was an obviously false sound of breaking glass.
The man seemed utterly friendly.
My husband transmitted something I couldn't make out because Letterman had put his hands behind his head with its helmet of hair and was saying "So then I guess why, is the thing, Edilyn. I mean we know about the dollars, the big, big dollars over there in, ah, prime time. They scribble vague hints, allusions, really, is all, they're such big dollars, about prime-time salaries in the washrooms here at NBC. They're amounts that get discussed only in low tones. Here you are," he said, "you've had, what, three quality television series? Countless guest-appearances on other programs. .?"
"A hundred and eight," I said.
He looked aggrieved at the camera a moment as the audience laughed.". . Virtually countless guest-credits," he said. "You've got a critically acclaimed police drama that's been on now, what, three years? four years? You've got this…" he looked at an index card". . talented daughter who's done several fine films and who's currently in a series, you've got a husband who's a mover and a shaker, basically a legend in comedy development…"
"Remember 'Laugh-In'?" said the NBC Sports coordinator. " 'Flip Wilson'? 'The Smothers'? Remember 'Saturday Night Live' back when it was good, for a few years there?" He was shaking his head in admiration.
Letterman released his own head. "So series, daughter's series, Emmy nomination, husband's virtually countless movings and shakings and former series, one of the best marriages in the industry if not the Northern, ah, Hemisphere…" He counted these assets off on his hands. His hands were utterly average. "You're loaded, sweetie," he said. "If I may." He smiled and played with his coffee mug. I smiled back.
"So then Edilyn a nation is wondering what's the deal with going off and doing these. . wiener commercials," he asked in a kind of near-whine that he immediately exaggerated into a whine.
Rudy's small voice came: "See how he exaggerated the whine the minute he saw how—?"
"Because I'm not a great actress, David," I said.
Letterman looked stricken. For a moment in the angled white lights I looked at him and he looked stricken for me. I was positive I was dealing with a basically sincere man.
"Those things you listed," I said, "are assets, is all they are." I looked at him. "They're my assets, David, they're not me. I'm an actress in commercial television. Why not act in television commercials?"
"Be honest," Rudy hissed, his voice slight and metallic as a low-quality phone. Letterman was pretending to sip coffee from an empty mug.
"Let's be honest," I said. The audience was quiet. "I just had a very traumatic birthday, and I've been shedding illusions right and left. You're now looking at a woman with no illusions, David."
Letterman seemed to perk up at this. He cleared his throat. My earplug hissed a direction never to use the word "illusions."
"That's sort of a funny coincidental thing," Letterman was saying speculatively. "I'm an illusion with no women; say do you. . detect a sort of parallel, there, Paul?"
I laughed with the audience as Paul Shaffer did a go-figure from the bandstand.
"Doom," my husband transmitted from the office of a man whose subordinates fished without hooks and sat in exploding circles. I patted at the hair over my ear.
I said, "I'm forty, David. I turned forty just last week. I'm at the point now where I think I have to know what I am." I looked at him. "I have four kids. Do you know of many working commercial-television actresses with four kids?"
'There are actresses who have four kids," Letterman said. "Didn't we have a lovely and talented young lady with four kids on, recently, Paul?"
"Name ten actresses with four kids," Shaffer challenged.
Letterman did a pretend double-take at him. "Ten?"
"Meredith Baxter Birney?" Reese said.
"Meredith Baxter Birney," Letterman nodded. "And Loretta Swit has four kids, doesn't she, Paul?"
"Marion Ross?"
"I think Meredith Baxter Birney actually has five kids, in fact, Dave," said Paul Shaffer, leaning over his little organ's microphone. His large bald spot had a label on it that said BALD SPOT.
"I guess the point, gentlemen" — I interrupted them, smiling— "is that I've got kids who're already bigger stars than I. I've appeared in two feature films, total, in my whole career. Now that I'm forty, I'm realizing that with two films, but three pretty long series, my mark on this planet is probably not going to be made in features. David, I'm a television actress."
"You're a woman who acts in television," Letterman corrected, smiling.
"And now a woman in television commercials, too." I shrugged as if I just couldn't see what the big deal was.
Paul Shaffer, still leaning over his organ, played a small but very sweet happy-birthday tune for me.
Letterman had put another card between his teeth. "So what I think we're hearing you saying, then, is that you didn't think the wiener-commercial thing would hurt your career, is the explanation."
"Oh no, God, no, not at all," I laughed. "I didn't mean that at all. I mean this is my career, right? Isn't that what we were just talking about?"
Letterman rubbed his chin. He looked at the Sports coordinator. "So then fears such as… say maybe something like compromising your integrity, some, ah, art factor: not a factor in this decision, is what you're saying."