"Stay my friend, Nimrod. It's all I ask."
They said good night-with a gentle kiss, not passionate anymore outside Karen's apartment building. At her suggestion, because she said she was tired, he did not go up, but walked sadly to his car, parked a block away.
12
In the last week of March, the dramatic, suddenly-erupting oil crisis overshadowed all else, dominating national and international news.
"It's like imminent war," someone observed at a GSP & L management committee meeting. "You keep thinking it won't happen, so that everything's unreal until the guns start firing."
There was nothing unreal about the OPEC nations' unanimous decision. Members of OPEC-the Arab countries and Iran, Venezuela, Indonesia, Nigeria-bad decreed a few days earlier: After tankers on the high seas and in United States ports had off-loaded their cargoes, no more oil would be dispatched to the U.S. until the dispute over payment had been resolved.
The OPEC nations claimed to have ample dollar reserves with which to sit out their embargo, reserves far greater, they pointed out, than U.S. stockpiles of oil.
"Unfortunately, too goddam true," a travel-weary Secretary of State snapped at Washington reporters in an undiplomatic, unguarded moment.
Within Golden State Power & Light, as elsewhere throughout the country, urgent policy decisions were being made. In GSP & L's bailiwick the question was no longer "if" there would be widespread temporary blackouts, but "bow soon" and to what extent.
The two previous years of drought in California and the light winter snowfall in the Sierra Nevada were compounding the problem because hydroelectric reserves were significantly less than usual. Nim, whose role as vice president, planning, placed him at the center of activity, became engaged in a hectic succession of conferences, their purpose to review emergency plans and decide priorities. Meanwhile, some national and state priorities had already been decreed. The President ordered immediate gasoline rationing, and a standby coupon scheme already "on the shelf" was to be activated within days.
Additionally, all sales of gasoline were forbidden from Friday nights to Monday mornings.
Also emanating from Washington was an edict halting all major sporting events and other attractions which produced large crowds, and closing national parks. The objective was to reduce unnecessary travel, especially by automobile. Theaters and movie houses, it was stated, might have to be closed later.
All public utilities using oil were ordered to begin around-the-clock "brownouts" by reducing their voltages five percent.
Public utilities which produced electricity by burning coal-principally in the central United States-were instructed to transmit as much power as they could spare to the East and West Coasts, which would be hardest hit by the oil embargo, and where massive umemployment was expected because of power-short plants and businesses. The scheme was labeled "Coal by Wire." However, its effect would be limited, in part because the central U.S. needed most of its electricity for local use, and also because long distance transmission lines were few in number.
Schools in many areas were being ordered to close now, and reopen in the summer when their heating and lighting needs would be far less.
Curbs on air travel were being worked out and would shortly be announced.
More drastic steps, the public was warned-including three- or even four-day weekends-were likely if the oil situation failed to improve.
Accompanying all official measures were pleas for voluntary conservation of energy in all its forms.
At Golden State Power & Light, every discussion was overshadowed by the knowledge that the utility's own stored oil was sufficient for only thirty days of normal operation.
Since some new oil, from tankers now en route, would still be coming in, it was decided that "rolling blackouts" would be delayed until the second week of May. Then, initially, the electricity cutoffs would be for three hours each day, after which more draconian measures might be needed.
But even the earliest power cuts, it was realized, would be disruptive, and damaging to the state's economy. Nim knew bow grim the situation was; so did others directly intervened. But the general public, Nim believed, had still not grasped, or perhaps didn't want to, the full significance of what was happening.
As well as Nim's planning duties, and because of his reinstatement as company spokesman, he was in demand to explain the current scene and outlook.
He found the two responsibilities a strain and told Teresa Van Buren,
"Okay, I'll handle the important occasions for you, but you'll have to use your own people for the small stuff." She said she would. Next day the PR director appeared in Nim's office. “There's a midday TV program called Lunch Break."
“You may not believe this, Tess," he said, "but I never watch it."
"Yeah, yeah; very funny. Well, don't be too quick to dismiss daytime television. There are a million housewives out there who do watch, and tomorrow the program wants the electricity crisis explained."
"By me, I suppose."
"Naturally," Van Buren said. "Who does it better?"
Nim grinned. "Okay, but do something for me. All TV stations specialize in time wasting. They ask you to be there early, then keep you waiting forever to go on. You know how busy I am so, for once, try to arrange a fast-in, fast-out."
"I'll come with you myself," Van Buren said. "And I'll work it out. I promise."
As it turned out, the promise was not fulfilled.
Lunch Break was a one-hour show which went on the air at noon. The PR director and Nim arrived at the TV studios at 11:50- In the foyer a young woman program assistant met them; like so many who worked in television, she dressed and looked as if she graduated from high school the week before. She carried the standard badge of office-a clipboard-and wore her glasses in her hair.
"Oh, yes, Mr. Goldman. You'll be on last, at ten to one."
"Hey, hold it!" Van Buren protested. "I was assured Mr. Goldman would be at the top of the show. He's one of our senior executives and his time is valuable, especially now."
"I know." the program assistant smiled sweetly. "But the producer changed his mind. Mr. Goldman's subject is rather heavy. It might depress our audience."
“They should be depressed," Nim said.
"If they are, and then switch off, our program will be over anyway," the young woman said firmly. "Perhaps you'd like to come on the set while you're waiting. Then you can watch the rest of the show."
Van Buren looked at Nim, putting up her hands in a gesture of helplessness.
Resigned, knowing how much urgent work he could have accomplished in the wasted hour, he told her, "Okay."
The program assistant, who had played the same scene many times, said, "Come with me, please."
The studio set, colorful and brightly lighted, was intended to look like a living room. Its centerpiece was a bright orange sofa occupied by two regular interviewers-Jerry and jean-young, vivacious, turned-on, Beautiful People. Three TV cameras prowled in front in a semicircle. Guests would join the interviewers under the bright lights, one by one.
The show's first ten minutes was devoted to a dancing bear from a visiting circus, the second to a seventy-year-old grandmother who had traveled from Chicago on roller skates. "I wore out five pairs," she boasted, "and would have been here sooner, except the police wouldn't let me use interstate highways."
Immediately preceding Nim was Lunch Break's own "House Doctor."
"He's on every day and has a tremendous following," the program assistant confided in a whisper. "People tune in especially, which is why, when you follow him, they'll be listening to you."