“Too late for that now.”
“I could.” She turned toward him. “I’ve been giving a great deal of thought to that. I might anyhow, no matter how this turns out.”
He had no answer for that. Sitting down on the couch, he waited for Bob Posin and Haynes. “Do you understand what I’m talking about?” she said.
“Sure I understand; you want to get married. Don’t they all want to get married? But this time make sure. Get him up to Doctor McIntosh and get the slides going.” It was the meanest thing he could think of, the bitterest remark.
Pat said, “I’m fairly sure.”
4
Haynes entered the apartment several minutes ahead of Bob Posin. He was a small, rather delicately built gentleman, in his sixties, with luminous white hair and a thin, celluloid-like nose, a nose without bone. The veins on the backs of his hands stood out, blue and distended. His skin was mottled by liver spots, and his walk was the half-shuffle of the elderly professional man.
“Good evening,” he said to Patricia. His voice was shaded with elegance. Jim thought of a conductor on a Southern railroad, a rigid old conductor with pocket watch and shiny, black, narrow-pointed shoes.
“Where’s Bob?” Pat asked. A heavy damp towel was wrapped around her head, elongating her skull, obscuring her hair; she supported the towel with one hand.
“Parking his car,” Haynes said. To Jim he said, “The first thing to get settled is, do you want to continue working for KOIF? Or was this a method of telling us that you intend to leave?”
The question bowled him over. “It sounds as if it’s up to me,” he said.
“Do you want to leave the station?”
He said, “No.”
“What is it then? The summer? Thinking about fishing in the mountains?”
At the door Bob Posin knocked, pushed the door open to look in. “Hard to park,” he said, entering. He had on a yellow Aloha sports shirt, hanging out at his waist, and dacron slacks. His hair was uncombed, and he looked seedy and harried.
“Then that’s settled,” Haynes continued. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re a fair enough announcer. We’ve never had any complaints about you up to now.”
“I’ll resign,” Jim said, “if you want.”
“No, we don’t want you to resign,” Haynes said. His hands behind his back, he went over to the corner of the room and looked at something hanging from the ceiling. “What’s this?” He touched it circumspectly. “Is this what they call a mobile? The first one I ever saw made out of—what is this? Eggshells?”
“You want the truth?” Pat said.
“I’ll be darned,” Haynes said, scrutinizing the mobile. “You made this yourself? Very clever.”
Pat said, “I’m going to have to go to bed. I have to be at the station at eight A.M. tomorrow morning. Excuse me.” She disappeared into the bedroom. At the door, she stopped momentarily. “You—didn’t want to ask me anything about all this, did you?” she said to Mr. Haynes.
“No. I guess not. Thanks. We’ll try to keep the voices down.”
“Good night,” she said. The bedroom door closed after her.
Ted Haynes threw himself down on the couch and faced Jim Briskin and Bob Posin his hands on his knees. After an interval, Posin also seated himself. Jim did so too.
“You know,” Haynes said, “I’ve been thinking, maybe TV would be the thing you ought to go into.” He was addressing Jim. His tone was considerate, the Southerner’s tone. The voice of a gentleman. “Ever give any thought to that?”
Jim shook his head.
“I’ve heard one of the network TV stations is looking for a disc-jockey to put up against Don Sherwood. Same sort of thing, talk and spot plugs, interviewing singers and entertainers . . . no records, just live talent from the Bay Area. People appearing at the different spots.”
“Sherwood’s too good,” Jim said shortly.
That settled that.
Scratching the side of his nose, Haynes said, “How about a more secluded job that would get you away from the bustle and pressure of the city, long enough for you to think things over and straighten out your mind. You might like it. The reason I say that is that somebody the other day told me that one of the valley stations Fresno or Dixon, some place like that—is looking for a combination man.”
“Then you do want me to resign,” Jim said.
“No, I don’t want you to resign; I just want to find out what’s the matter with you.”
“Nothing,” he said . . ..
“How does this sound, then?” Haynes said. “I’m going to put you on one morth’s suspension, without pay, subject to the approval of the union. At the end of that time you come into the station and tell us if you want to keep working for us, or if you want to call it quits, and we’ll part friends and you can go on to something else, whatever you want.”
Jim said, “Suits me.”
“Fine,” Haynes said. “You haven’t had your vacation yet this year, have you? Suppose then we give you a check for what you’ve worked this month up to now, plus pay instead of the vacation. So it won’t hit so hard in the pocketbook.”
He nodded.
“Shall we say starting tomorrow?” Haynes said. “Your shift begins at two, doesn’t it? I’ll have Flannery come in and take it. I suppose either Flannery or Hubble.”
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Either of them can handle it.”
“How do you feel about this?” Haynes said. “Does it meet with your approval?”
He shrugged. “Why not? Sure it meets with my approval.” He went unsteadily into the kitchen and began fixing himself a drink. “Anything for you?”
“Too late at night,” Haynes said. He brought out his watch. “You know what I think that mobile is made out of?” he was saying to Posin, as Jim got ice cubes from the refrigerator.
He stood alone in the kitchen, drinking. In the living room Haynes was talking.
“There’s only one thing you can be sure of. What sells soap today, stinks tomorrow. There’s no charity in the industry. You take some body like Sherwood; they’re reeling him out on a string. A fair question would be, does he know it? Or does he think he’s getting away with something? Nobody’s going to pay his bills when he stops selling; he’s just a new way to sell.”
“A new way,” Posin said. “With the illusion of independence—”
“A trend,” Posin said.
“If you wish, a trend. But suppose he really knocked the sponsors; suppose he stopped smiling as he spills the—what is it? Falstaff beer. Then they yank him. Of course the problem is that nobody really knows what they want. They’re all confused; the whole industry is confused.”
“You can say that again,” Posin’s voice sounded.
“Sherwood is riding on a crest. They’re trying him out. If Sherwood went up to the wheels at ABC and said, what is it you really want me to do, they wouldn’t be able to tell him.”
“They’d be able to tell him, you sell soap,” Posin said. “Yes, they could tell him that. But they wouldn’t.”
“Pragmatic,” Posin was saying, as Jim finished his drink and poured himself a second.
“What happened to Briskin?”
Posin’s voice said, “He went into the kitchen.”
“Well, go see if he’s all right.”
Appearing, Posin said, “Are you okay?”
“Sure,” Jim said. Leaning against the moist tile of the sink, he drank down his drink. “I think the thirty-day business is a good all-around solution,” Posin said. “You do?” Jim said.
Haynes, in the living room, said, “I’m going to have to run along. Briskin, you have anything you want to say before we go? Any comments or suggestions?”
Jim walked into the living room. “Mr. Haynes,” he said, “what do you listen to when you turn on the radio?”