“Go on,” Howard said. His tone and expression were sour.
“Bradford Lockridge,” the co-producer told him, “is an elder statesman, a part of America. That’s his image. Americans love all elder statesmen, and they especially love all ex-Presidents. Even Johnson, once he was safely out of the White House. Bradford Lockridge was defeated for reelection, but the same people who voted against him nine years ago think of him as a grand old man today. He served his country well, all that bullshit.”
“As a matter of fact,” Howard said, “he did serve it well.”
“Sure he did. Who’s arguing? What I’m saying is, the man has a public image, both as an individual and as a representative of the whole goddamn United States. Now, here we have an interview with him where he insults Irish Catholics, where he accuses the entire United States Senate of cowardice and himself of being a blundering chief executive, he plays childish guessing games with the interviewer—”
“He leaves the image,” Howard finished.
George, who had just finished his second Jack Daniels, held his paper cup ceilingward again and said, “He kicks the image in the crotch, Howard, is what he does. A little technical term from the global village there for you.”
Howard said, “But isn’t that up to Bradford? What the hell, the man isn’t running for office any more, what does he care what the public image is? He didn’t ask you to protect him.”
“Protect him?” The co-producer seemed honestly shocked. “Excuse me for saying this about a relative of yours, but screw Bradford Lockridge, may he be mugged every day of his life. But not on television.”
George, his cup having again been taken, waved a slightly wavy finger at Howard and said, “That’s the point, Howard, that’s exactly the point.”
Who do you think the public would get mad at? the co-producer asked. “You think they’d get sore at Lockridge? The hell they would. They’d get mad at television again.”
“That’s stupid,” Howard said.
“Did I say it was smart? I said it would happen. Evil George over there would have entrapped his famous grandfather, he would have maliciously distorted the interview for the purposes of sensational journalism. I am pre-quoting The New York Times.”
“It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Nobody’s asking it to make sense. Look, Howard, Eisenhower was the biggest bigot since Babbitt, and everybody knew it, but nobody said it, did they? Grand old man. Talk about golf, and hope he doesn’t say anything about keeping the coons off the courses.”
“It’s only been the last couple of years,” George said, as a refilled paper cup was placed in his hand, “that we could tell the truth about Millard Fillmore.”
“It isn’t the man that matters,” the co-producer insisted, “it’s the image. If he does something counter to the image, you don’t notice it. You most particularly don’t put it on television.”
“No matter what?”
“What do you mean, no matter what?”
Howard shrugged and said, “What if it turned out that for the last four years Brad has been a rape-murderer of little children all over Pennsylvania? Thirty-seven children. They finally catch him red-handed and—”
“Ooog,” said George, whose brain became more image-conscious when he was drinking.
“Anyway,” said Howard, “there he is. That doesn’t go on the news?”
“It goes on the news,” the co-producer agreed. “And right with the report, here come thirty-seven trained psychiatrists — I mean trained in the way a dog is trained to the paper — thirty-seven experts, one for each nymphet, to explain the heavy burden of national service that caused this mighty brain to crack, that Bradford Lockridge is more to be pitied than censured, that the image is still safe because this guy has flipped out and is now a nut. A nut is the same as being dead, the accomplishments before the tragic event aren’t altered by how bad the smell gets afterward. Meantime, the government is locking him away in the middle of Fort Knox, and very soon nobody talks about him any more.”
“Easier than that with Bradford,” George muttered. “They threw him out.”
“That’s right,” the co-producer said. “If he was really causing trouble, and wouldn’t get out of the public eye, you just shoot him down. The voters’ instinctive reaction justified. Nine years ago the American voter showed the true strength of democracy by sensing in Bradford Lockridge the mental and emotional weakness that nine years later would tragically result, etcetera, etcetera.”
“Tragically result in that goddamn interview,” George said. His cup was emptying faster each time, and now when he raised it over his head his arm wobbled back and forth.
Howard said, “You can’t use it? You really can’t use it?”
“We’ve got ninety minutes of tape,” the co-producer said. “We need to find twenty-seven minutes of sanity in it. Television sanity. I know the way you look at it Lockridge was never saner than he was today, but all I am is a poor struggling orphan trying to make a living in the communications biz. I think we can find twenty-seven minutes there.”
“Fill,” George said, cupping his refilled cup. “I talk about the book. Minutes and minutes.”
“If necessary,” the co-producer agreed.
“If you want me to talk to Bradford,” Howard offered, “I will. I could get him to do it again, if you want. I mean do it different.”
“Thanks,” said the co-producer. “Let me take a look at what we’ve got. If we need help, George can SOS you.”
“SOS,” George mumbled. It was occurring to him, a bit too late, that he’d had no lunch.
“Frankly,” the co-producer was saying, “I don’t understand what made him kick over the traces like that. He already knows everything I’ve just been telling you, he has to. A politician doesn’t make it to national prominence without understanding that.”
“Maybe he just got bored,” said Howard. “I’ve seen him do it in the books sometimes, too. He always changes it back later on, but that’s because the books are the real record, the permanent statement of his accomplishments. You can’t expect him to take a television interview as seriously.”
“That’s unfortunate,” said, the co-producer.
“What the hell does that mean?” George demanded. He stared with one open eye at his partner.
The co-producer looked at him in surprise. “What?”
“Kick over the traces,” George said. He was slurring slightly. “What the hell does that mean, exactly? What are the traces? Why kick them over?”
“George, you’re plastered.”
“I’m three sheetrocks to the wind. Sounds like horses, all that kick over business. Some goddam agrarian fossil.” He slid over agrarian like an ice skater struggling to retain equilibrium. “I bet you don’t know what traces are any more than I do.”
Howard said, “I think it would be a good idea if George and I went away now.”
“Right,” said the co-producer. “George, I’ll phone you in the morning.”
“Becomes eclectic,” said George. “How do you like that, Howard? We did a special on a rock and roll funeral one time, four-five years ago. Mourning Becomes Eclectic. I thought of that.”
“It’s lovely,” said Howard.
“It was never shown,” said the co-producer.
Howard looked at him. “Wrong image?”
“You bet your bird.”
“Bird,” said George. “Bird word turd heard Mortimer Snerd.”
Howard got to his feet and came over to put a hand on George’s elbow. “Let’s go, buddy,” he said. “You’ve had a busy day.”