Dan Wakefield - Selling Out - A Novel

Perry was happy to accept Ned Gurney’s gracious invitation for Thanksgiving dinner. He felt he could use a little of Ned’s style of “civilization” after that session with Max Bloorman and the East Coast brass. Jesus. They sounded like a rock group. Heavy Metal. Perry wished Ned had been there, had got red in the face and given those guys a piece of his mind. Perry had the producer’s outfit but he didn’t yet seem to know how to wield what should be his power. He was already feeling lonely without Ned out there in front of him.

It was a bright, warm day in the seventies, so Kim served the buffet of turkey with cranberries and all the trimmings right out on the patio. They had decided at the last minute to put on this spread and have people over instead of going into hiding after Ned’s shocking dismissal.

Mostly there were actor and actress friends. Evidently Ned felt now that he was not doing the show he could socialize with them, including Lon Ridings from the “First Year” cast. Lon needed the company, and some good holiday cheer, having already been informed by Archer that he wouldn’t be renewed for the next block of shows since the role he played was being written out. Perry was also pleasantly surprised to see Ronnie Banks, the talented young actor whom they all had wanted to get the role of Jack but was vetoed by the network. They had had him back for a one-shot role as a grad student friend of Jack and Laurie, and he did beautifully with the small part. Evidently Ned wanted him for a role in Spoons if that fantasy movie ever became a reality.

Perry felt a sudden wrench, like a blow in the side, thinking of Jane. Their last Thanksgiving was the best he’d ever had. All his adult life he’d complained about the programmed nature of the turkey-with-all-the-trimmings traditional meal, lamenting that he couldn’t give thanks by having his own favorite fare of steak and baked potato, and last year Jane had surprised him by serving a fabulous porterhouse with baked potato, sour cream and chives, a Waldorf salad, chocolate mousse, and a bottle of Valpolicella, his favorite red wine (that was a year ago of course, in his pre—Napa Valley era). Having this hoary wish come true had of course put Perry in a wonderful mood, and they spent a lovely day and night, eating and looking into the fire, and making long, slow, affectionate love. He wondered where Jane was now, today. Probably at the Cohens’. Would they have any guests? Any spare men, perhaps? A visiting lecturer of some sort, one of those fey, lonely chaps from the British Isles?

Perry finished off his first glass of wine and got another. He was just as glad Liz Caddigan was in New York for the holiday with her bicoastal lover. He had the feeling that being with a woman today would simply make him sad.

Ronnie Banks and Lon Ridings got into a funny, improvisational dialogue of an Indian and a pilgrim that had everyone in stitches, and then Lon started joking about being replaced by a cop. At first it was funny but as he drank more it got a bit maudlin. Kim went over and talked with him and he quieted down.

Perry confided to Ned his fears about doing what he was doing, and how he missed his influence already. Ned was very supportive and mellow about the whole thing.

“What the hell, it’s television,” he said. “Those guys are all up against the gun. It’s like Russian roulette with the damn ratings. No wonder they make wacky decisions. Their own jobs are on the line.”

“Still, that’s no excuse for doing what they did to you,” Perry said righteously.

Ned patted him on the shoulder.

“Hey, when this thing’s over we’ll work together on something civilized. I haven’t forgotten about that option we talked about on your beautiful story. ‘The Springtime Women.’”

Perry flushed. He had somehow hoped that Ned would forget about their little informal agreement. He had never told him he had actually signed a deal for it with Vaughan Vardeman.

“Ned,” he said, screwing up his courage, “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that.”

“Sure—just let me check on Lon for a sec. I’ll be right back.”

Ned got up and strolled over the little strip of earth that ran along the patio at the side of one wing of the house. There was a border of assorted flowers planted there but none of them was in bloom now. Lon had gone over and lay down there, on his stomach, his head resting on his arm. It was a sleeping position but his eyes were open and he had a wineglass next to him that he picked up and sipped from. Ned bent down and spoke to him, and then came back and sat down again with Perry.

“Is Lon OK?” Perry asked.

“He will be. Right now he’s taking it hard. He’d counted on this series going. Put the kids through college—that’s what everyone hopes for.”

“Wow. It’s rough. He’s not sick, though? He just wants to lie down?”

Ned sighed and rubbed hard at his forehead.

“He said he just wants to ‘get close to the earth.’”

Close to the earth . My God. Perry felt little prickles along his arms, as if an electrical current had passed. He imagined himself lying that way on the ground, brought low, feeling desperate. There was a grown man over there, an accomplished and talented man, driven to such a state. It might happen to anyone out here, anyone on this roller coaster of a business. It might happen to Perry himself. He tried to shake off the thought.

“Oh well,” he said, “listen, Ned. About that story. I kind of forgot about it. I mean, you didn’t mention it again. And since we didn’t have anything in writing, well, when Vaughan Vardeman got interested, and he gave it to Harrison Ford, well, I just thought—it would be OK.”

“I see,” Ned said.

“I’m sorry,” said Perry.

“I wish you’d have let me know. I thought we had a deal.”

“Well, hell, we’ll do something else. Really. I really want to.”

“Sure,” Ned said. “If you’ll excuse me?”

He went to talk to some of the other guests.

Perry felt rotten. He downed his wine and then got some more. He noticed Lon Ridings had taken off his shirt. He was now removing his trousers. A few people glanced over at him but no one said anything. He was wearing jockey shorts. Perry went over to him.

“Can I get you a drink or anything?” he asked.

“All I want,” Lon said, “is to get close to the earth.”

He lay down, flat, on the ground, digging his fingers in the dirt.

Perry turned away. There were tears in his eyes. He wasn’t sure if he was feeling sad for Lon or for himself. He wanted to get out of there. He didn’t want to feel this way. He wanted to feel strong and hard and upbeat, like a real hyphenate should, a successful writer-producer. He put down his glass and fled, without even saying good-bye or thanking anyone.

It was a new day, a new beginning. Perry was rested, fresh, eager to get to work.

“Come in, come in!” Archer Mellis called with a welcoming wave. “I want you to meet your new producer!”

Perry threw back his shoulders and smiled, looking around the office to see who it was Archer wished him to greet. When he walked in he hadn’t noticed anyone, but now he saw, hunched in a corner, a large form, a massive hulking shape that stirred, moved, stood, and came slowly toward him.

It was a man. A large, bulky, hirsute man with wiry, tangled, gray-black hair that cascaded over his ears and grew wildly below his nose and around his mouth, bristling down his chin in the form of a great Brillolike beard.

Archer stepped out from behind his desk and clapped an arm on the hairy man’s broad back, seeming to help guide and propel the creature’s slow, tanklike progress across the room.

“I want you to meet your producer!” Archer said in a tone of jubilation, reaching for Perry’s arm that was already moving outward and bringing it forward like a referee uniting two contending fighters before a match. Perry took the man’s hamlike hand, bracing for some bone-crushing squeeze, yet he felt only a slight, bloblike tremor.