Being There (6 page)

Chance watched TV in his room. The President's speech at the luncheon of the Financial Institute was telecast on several channels; the few remaining programs showed only family games and children's adventures. Chance ate lunch in his room, continued to watch TV, and was just about to fall asleep when Rand's secretary called.

“The executives of the
THIS EVENING
television program have just phoned,” she said excitedly, “and they want you to appear on the show tonight. They apologized for giving you such short notice, but they've only just now heard that the Vice President will be unable to appear on the show to discuss the President's speech. Because Mr. Rand is so ill, he will, of course, also be unable to appear, but he has suggested that you—a financier who has made so favorable an impression on the President—might be willing to come instead.”

Chance could not imagine what being on TV involved. He wanted to see himself reduced to the size
of the screen; he wanted to become an image, to dwell inside the set.

The secretary waited on the phone.

“It's all right with me,” said Chance. “What do I have to do?”

“You don't have to do anything, sir,” she said cheerfully. “The producer himself will pick you up in time for the show. It's a live program, so you have to be there half an hour before it goes on. You'll be
THIS EVENING'S
main attraction tonight. I'll call them right back; they'll be delighted with your acceptance.”

Chance turned on the TV. He wondered whether a person changed before or after appearing on the screen. Would he be changed forever or only during the time of his appearance? What part of himself would he leave behind when he finished the program? Would there be two Chances after the show: one Chance who watched TV and another who appeared on it?

Early that evening, Chance was visited by the producer of
THIS EVENING
—a short man in a dark suit. The producer explained that the President's speech had heightened interest in the nation's economic situation. “… and since the Vice President won't be able to appear on our show tonight,” he continued, “we would be very grateful to have you tell our viewers exactly what is going on in the country's economy.
Occupying, as you do, a position of such intimacy with the President, you are a man ideally suited to provide the country with an explanation. On the show you can be as direct as you'd like to be. The host won't interrupt you at all while you're talking, but if he wants to break in he'll let you know by raising his left forefinger to his left eyebrow. This will mean that he wants either to ask you a new question or to emphasize what you've already said.”

“I understand,” said Chance.

“Well, if you're ready, sir, we can go; our makeup man will have to do only a minor touch-up.” He smiled. “Our host, by the way, would be honored to meet you before the show goes on.”

In the large limousine sent by the network, there were two small TV sets. As they drove along Park Avenue, Chance asked if a set could be turned on. He and the producer watched the program in silence.

The interior of the studio looked like all the TV studios Chance had ever seen on TV. He was escorted quickly to a large adjoining office and offered a drink, which he refused; instead, he had a cup of coffee. The host of the show appeared. Chance recognized him instantly; he had seen him many times on
THIS EVENING,
although he did not like talk shows very much.

While the host talked on and on to him, Chance
wondered what was going to happen next and when he would actually be televised. The host grew quiet at last, and the producer returned promptly with a make-up man. Chance sat in front of a mirror as the man covered his face with a thin layer of brownish powder. “Have you appeared on television a lot?” asked the make-up man.

“No,” said Chance, “but I watch it all the time.”

The make-up man and the producer chuckled politely. “Ready,” said the make-up man, nodding and closing his case. “Good luck, sir.” He turned and left.

Chance waited in an adjacent room. In one corner stood a large, bulky TV set. He saw the host appear and introduce the show. The audience applauded; the host laughed. The big, sharp-nosed cameras rolled smoothly around the stage. There was music, and the band leader flashed on screen, grinning.

Chance was astonished that television could portray itself; cameras watched themselves and, as they watched, they televised a program. This self-portrait was telecast on TV screens facing the stage and watched by the studio audience. Of all the manifold things there were in all the world—trees, grass, flowers, telephones, radios, elevators—only TV constantly held up a mirror to its own neither solid nor fluid face.

Suddenly the producer appeared and signaled Chance to follow him. They walked through the door
and on past a heavy curtain. Chance heard the host pronounce his name. Then, as the producer stepped away, he found himself in the glare of the lights. He saw the audience in front of him; unlike the audiences he had seen on his own TV set, he could not distinguish individual faces in the crowd. Three large cameras stood on the small, square stage; on the right, the host sat at a leather-padded table. He beamed at Chance, rose with dignity, and introduced him; the audience applauded loudly. Imitating what he had so often seen on TV, Chance moved toward the vacant chair at the table. He sat down, and so did the host. The cameramen wheeled the cameras silently around them. The host leaned across the table toward Chance.

Facing the cameras and the audience, now barely visible in the background of the studio, Chance abandoned himself to what would happen. He was drained of thought, engaged, yet removed. The cameras were licking up the image of his body, were recording his every movement and noiselessly hurling them into millions of TV screens scattered throughout the world—into rooms, cars, boats, planes, living rooms, and bedrooms. He would be seen by more people than he could ever meet in his entire life—people who would never meet him. The people who watched him on their sets did not know who actually faced them; how could they,
if they had never met him? Television reflected only people's surfaces; it also kept peeling their images from their bodies until they were sucked into the caverns of their viewers' eyes, forever beyond retrieval, to disappear. Facing the cameras with their unsensing triple lenses pointed at him like snouts, Chance became only an image for millions of real people. They would never know how real he was, since his thinking could not be televised. And to him, the viewers existed only as projections of his own thought, as images. He would never know how real they were, since he had never met them and did not know what they thought.

Chance heard the host say: “We here in the studio are very honored to have you with us tonight, Mr. Chauncey Gardiner, and so, I'm sure, are the more than forty million Americans who watch
THIS EVENING
nightly. We are especially grateful to you for filling in on such short notice for the Vice President, who was unfortunately prevented by pressing business from being with us tonight.” The host paused for a second; there was complete silence in the studio. “I will be frank, Mr. Gardiner. Do you agree with the President's view of our economy?”

“Which view?” asked Chance.

The host smiled knowingly. “The view which the President set forth this afternoon in his major address
to the Financial Institute of America. Before his speech, the President consulted with you, among his other financial advisers….”

“Yes … ?” said Chance.

“What I mean is …” The host hesitated and glanced at his notes. “Well … let me give you an example: the President compared the economy of this country to a garden, and indicated that after a period of decline a time of growth would naturally follow….”

“I know the garden very well,” said Chance firmly. “I have worked in it all of my life. It's a good garden and a healthy one; its trees are healthy and so are its shrubs and flowers, as long as they are trimmed and watered in the right seasons. The garden needs a lot of care. I do agree with the President: everything in it will grow strong in due course. And there is still plenty of room in it for new trees and new flowers of all kinds.”

Part of the audience interrupted to applaud and part booed. Looking at the TV set that stood to his right, Chance saw first his own face fill the screen. Then some faces in the audience were shown—they evidently approved his words; others appeared angry. The host's face returned to the screen, and Chance turned away from the set and faced him.

“Well, Mr. Gardiner,” the host said, “that was very
well put indeed, and I think it was a booster for all of us who do not like to wallow in complaints or take delight in gloomy predictions! Let us be clear, Mr. Gardiner. It is your view, then, that the slowing of the economy, the downtrend in the stock market, the increase in unemployment … you believe that all of this is just another phase, another season, so to speak, in the growth of a garden….”

“In a garden, things grow … but first, they must wither; trees have to lose their leaves in order to put forth new leaves, and to grow thicker and stronger and taller. Some trees die, but fresh saplings replace them. Gardens need a lot of care. But if you love your garden, you don't mind working in it, and waiting. Then in the proper season you will surely see it flourish.”

Chance's last words were partly lost in the excited murmuring of the audience. Behind him, members of the band tapped their instruments; a few cried out loud bravos. Chance turned to the set beside him and saw his own face with the eyes turned to one side. The host lifted his hand to silence the audience, but the applause continued, punctuated by isolated boos. He rose slowly and motioned Chance to join him at center stage, where he embraced him ceremoniously. The applause mounted to uproar. Chance stood uncertainly. As the noise subsided, the host took Chance's
hand and said: “Thank you, thank you, Mr. Gardiner. Yours is the spirit which this country so greatly needs. Let's hope it will help usher spring into our economy. Thank you again, Mr. Chauncey Gardiner—financier, presidential adviser, and true statesman!”

He escorted Chance back to the curtain, where the producer gently took him in hand. “You were great, sir, just great!” the producer exclaimed. “I've been producing this show for almost three years and I can't remember anything like it! I can tell you that the boss really loved it. It was great, really great!” He led Chance to the rear of the studio. Several employees waved to him warmly, while others turned away.

After dining with his wife and children, Thomas Franklin went into the den to work. There was simply not enough time for him to finish his work in the office, especially as Miss Hayes, his assistant, was on vacation.

He worked until he could no longer concentrate, then went to the bedroom. His wife was already in bed, watching a TV program of commentary on the President's speech. Franklin glanced at the set as he undressed. In the last two years, Franklin's stock market holdings had fallen to one third of their value,
his savings were gone, and his share in the profits of his firm had recently diminished. He was not encouraged by the President's speech and hoped that the Vice President or, in his absence, this fellow Gardiner, might brighten his gloomy predicament. He threw off his trousers clumsily, neglecting to hang them in the automatic trouser-press which his wife had given him on his birthday, and sat down on the bed to watch
THIS EVENING
, which was just starting.

The host introduced Chauncey Gardiner. The guest moved forward. The image was sharp and the color faithful. But even before that full face materialized clearly on the screen, Franklin felt he had seen this man before somewhere. Had it been on TV, during one of the in-depth interviews through which the restless cameras showed every angle of a man's head and body? Perhaps he had even met Gardiner in person? There was something familiar about him, especially the way he was dressed.

He was so absorbed in trying to remember if and when he had actually met the man that he did not hear at all what Gardiner said and what it was exactly that had prompted the loudly applauding audience.

“What was that he said, dear?” he asked his wife.

“Wow!” she said, “how did you miss it? He just said that the economy is doing fine! The economy is supposed to be something like a garden: you know,
things grow and things wilt. Gardiner thinks things will be okay!” She sat in bed looking at Franklin ruefully. “I told you that there was no need to give up our option on that place in Vermont or to put off the cruise. It's just like you—you're always the first one to panic! Ha! I told you so! It's only a mild frost—in the garden!”

Franklin once again stared distractedly at the screen. When and where the devil had he seen this fellow before?

“This Gardiner has quite a personality,” his wife mused. “Manly; well-groomed; beautiful voice; sort of a cross between Ted Kennedy and Cary Grant. He's not one of those phony idealists, or IBM-ized technocrats.”