Эд Макбейн - Mothers and Daughters

Some trouble developed in the cable to number-three camera, and the bank of floods illuminating the show’s single expensive set suddenly went out, and electricians began scrambling over every available inch of work space, moving ladders and hurling about screwdrivers, and Louisa complained in confidence to the wardrobe mistress that she had just been visited with her menstrual period and didn’t feel like singing at all , if the truth were known. There was a feeling of mounting tension in the studio as the clock ticked off the minutes to air time. David felt the rising panic, felt too an impending sense of doom, the inexorable sweep of that minute hand around the clock, the calamities that kept piling one upon the other in scattered hopelessness, and another feeling, too, the ghosts of George Devereaux and Mike Arretti suddenly crowding into that strident atmosphere and sending a chill of anticipation up his spine. He tried to fight the feeling, tried to disentangle himself from the sticky helplessness of a fate that seemed to weave itself tighter and tighter around him. He knew something would happen. Nervously, he awaited the explosion.

He was holding in his hand a new product supplied by a Los Angeles advertising agency when he approached Sam Martin that day. The product, one among a list of notable and superior commodities touted by the California admen, was a shaving cream called Beards Away! The name made David a little bilious, but there it was, one of those new shaving-cream bombs full of rich creamy lather, which erupted at the touch of a finger tip. Or, as was the case with Beards Away! not quite at a touch. Beards Away! had a built-in safety factor that prevented the cream from dripping all over the medicine cabinet when it was not in use. There was a small cap, which screwed onto the nozzle, and it was necessary to remove this cap before pressing the stud that released the billowing lather into the palm of your hand. The product had arrived from Los Angeles together with a directive explaining the use of the can, the part about the nozzle lettered in upper-case type, REMOVE NOZZLE CAP BEFORE PRESSING RELEASE STUD, underlined. David cornered Martin at about ten minutes after one when it was discovered that the set designer had supplied a wrong backdrop for a skit being done on the show, a view of the Brooklyn Bridge when he was supposed to have provided a Paris bistro. That was the way things were going.

“Sam,” David said, “have you got a minute?”

Martin turned from his talk with the designer. He was beginning to sweat through his make-up, and the make-up man hovered nearby with powder and brush, waiting to touch him up as soon as he could tear him away from all those other people. The armpits of Martin’s blue shirt were stained with sweat. A woman from Wardrobe stood behind the make-up man, holding Martin’s jacket and waiting to help him put it on.

“What is it, David?” Martin said, turning. He remembered to smile as he turned. Panic was in the air, and the sweep hand of the studio clock marked in one-second intervals seemed to be moving at a faster clip now, panic was something you could touch and breathe, but Sam Martin remembered to smile as he turned.

“Sam, when you’re demonstrating this new shaving cream...”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“This Beards Away!”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“This stuff.” David held up the can. “It’s important to unscrew this little cap from the nozzle before you press the button. Otherwise, nothing’ll come out.”

“I know,” Martin said.

“Okay,” David answered, smiling. “Good luck with the show.”

“Thanks,” Martin said, and he turned back to the set designer.

At ten minutes before air time, the panic was so thick you couldn’t see through it. David remembered the shaving-cream bomb and decided to find Martin again, just to remind him, just to make sure. Martin was looking over the show’s timetable when he located him, underlining portions of the script, marking some passages with a red, others with a blue, pencil.

“Sam,” David said, “you won’t forget to unscrew that cap, will you?”

Martin looked up from the script and very calmly said, “Would you like to demonstrate the product, David?”

“No. No, Sam, no,” David said, backing away. “I just thought I’d, no, forget it.” And he went to sit in the sponsor’s booth while the announcer began warming up the studio audience. He could not shake the feeling of approaching tragedy. Unconsciously, he crossed his fingers as the clock swept toward one-thirty. There was a silence. The monitor in the booth flashed a ten-second station break, and then a telop announcing “ Memos to follow,” and then the theme hit the tube simultaneously with a film clip showing New York City’s fabulous skyline and the announcer’s voice rode in over the theme, ending with the words “... and now the star of our show, Sam Martin! ” The studio audience burst into wild prompted applause, and Martin ambled out casually, just as if he hadn’t been through the eight inner circles since twelve noon, and said, “Hello, girls,” and winked at the camera and then added, “And you too, fellers,” and then told a homey joke and introduced Louisa, who sang sweetly and demurely. David relaxed a little, but he kept his fingers crossed.

The shaving-cream commercial came in the second half-hour segment of the show, following the Paris bistro skit, which was finally played against the Brooklyn Bridge backdrop and which, happily, seemed even funnier that way. Martin picked up the attractive-looking can and held it up to the viewing audience and went into a homespun spiel about this new device that provided sudsy lather at his finger tips, and then said, “Well, this is how it works.”

The cap, David thought.

“You just press this little button—”

“ The cap ,” David whispered aloud, and a production assistant in the booth turned and looked at him quizzically.

“—and the cream comes out, it’s just magic, folks.”

He pressed the stud. Nothing happened.

“Oh, Jesus!” David said.

Martin grinned a boyishly sweet grin, studied the can casually, and said, “You’re supposed to press this button on top of the can.” He shrugged. “Well, let’s see.” And he pressed the stud again, still not removing the cap from the nozzle, and again nothing happened. David closed his eyes and then opened them and stared at the monitor in helpless fascination.

“All you do is press this button,” Martin said again, and again he pressed it, and said, “Now what the h—” and cut himself short and looked at the can of shaving cream as if it were a malevolent Russian weapon. He banged the stud with the palm of his hand. He hit the can on the edge of his desk. He hit it again, and pounded the stud again, and then said, “Well, you go out and buy a can. Maybe you’ll have better luck with it than I did,” and tossed the can across the stage to the orchestra leader, who, intent on his next music cue, missed the can as it came sailing toward him. The can hit the stage like a falling rock. The cap came loose from the nozzle and suddenly the can erupted in a shower of foamy lather, spraying everyone on the stage with shaving cream.

The call from Los Angeles came not ten minutes later. Curt Sonderman took it in his private office and said, “Yes, I know. It was just one of those unforeseen... well, how do I know whether the product was explained to him or not? Regan is supposed to take care of that, not me. Look, it’s his job! I’ve got enough things to do around here without... what? Yes, I’m the one who hired him, but... Look, don’t use that tone of voice with me! What the hell do you do, write crummy advertising copy all day long? Did you ever try to put on a network television show? All right then, shut up! All right, I’ll get a full explanation. Yes, I’ll call you back. After the show! We’re on until three-thirty, and I’m busy, and... look, what’s your name, Mac? Get off my back, it’ll be taken care of! If Regan has to be fired, he’ll be fired. Good bye! ”