The Magic Christian (7 page)

“Listen, Al,” said the producer, a short fat man who rose up and down on his toes, smiling, as he spoke, “we got the highest Trendex in the books right now.”

“Max, goddamn it, I’d have the FCC down on my neck in another week—
you
can’t schedule one kind of hour—have something go haywire every time and fill out with something else . . . I mean what the
hell
you got over there . . .
two
shows or
one,
for Christ’s sake!”

“We got the top Trendex in the biz, Al.”

“There are some goddamn things that are against the law, Max, and that kind of stuff you had going out last week, that
‘I pity the moron whose life is so empty he would look at this,’
and that kind of crap
cannot go out over the air!
Don’t you understand that? It’s not
me,
Max, you know that. I wouldn’t give a goddamn if you had a . . . a
mule
up there throwing it to some hot broad, I only wish we could, for Christ’s sake—but there
is a question of lawful procedure and
. . .”

“How about if it’s ‘healthy satire of the media,’ Al?”

“. . . and—
what?”

“We got the top of the book, Al.”

“Wait a minute . . .”

“We got it, Al.”

“Wait a minute, Max, I’m thinking, for Christ’s sake . . . ‘healthy satire of the media’. . .
It’s
an angle,
it’s
an angle. Jones might buy it . . . Jones at the FCC . . . if I could get to him first. . . he’s stupid enough to buy it. Okay, it’s an angle, Max—that’s all I can say right now . . . it’s an angle.”

The critics for the most part, after lambasting the first couple of shows as “terrific boners,” sat tight for a while, just to see which way the wind was going to blow, so to speak—then, with the rating at skyrocket level, they began to suggest that the show might be worth a peek.

“An off-beat sleeper,” one of them said, “don’t miss it.”

“New
comedy,” said a second, “a sophisticated take-off on the sentimental.”

And another: “Here’s humor at its highest.”

Almost all agreed in the end that it was healthy satire.

After interfering with six or seven shows, Grand grew restive.

“I’m pulling out,” he said to himself, “it may have been good money after bad all along.”

It was just as well perhaps, because at the point when the producer and sponsor became aware of what was responsible for their vast audience, they began consciously trying to choose and shape each drama towards that moment of anomaly which had made the show famous. And somehow this seemed to spoil it. At any rate it very soon degenerated—back to the same old tripe. And of course it was soon back to the old rating as well—which, as in the early, pre-Grand days, was all right, but nothing, really, to be too proud of.

“W
OULD YOU LIKE
to know why I remember that young Laird K. Russell so vividly, Agnes?” Esther was asking.

Ginger Horton sniffed to show unqualified disinterest and murmured something to her sleeping Bitsy.

“Esther, you can’t be serious,” said Agnes, turning to the others with a brilliant smile. “More tea, anyone?”

“I most certainly
would
like to know,” said Grand, actually coming forward a little on his chair.

“Well,” said Esther, “it was because he looked like my father.”

“Esther, really!” cried Agnes.

“I mean
our
father, of course,” Esther amended. “Yes, Agnes, he looked just like the photographs of Poppa as a young man. It struck me then, but I didn’t realize it at the time. So perhaps it’s not Laird K. Russell I’m remembering, you see, even now, but those photographs. You didn’t know him, of course, Guy—he was a truly remarkable man.”

“Young Russell do you mean, or Poppa?” asked Guy.

“Why Poppa, of course—surely you don’t know Laird K. Russell?”

“Esther, in the name of heaven!” cried Agnes. “He’s probably
dead
by now! How
can
you go on so about the man? Sometimes I wonder if you aren’t trying quite deliberately to
upset
me. . . .”

Speaking of upsets though, Grand upset the equilibrium of a rather smart Madison Avenue advertising agency, Jonathan Reynolds, Ltd., by secretly buying it—
en passant,
so to speak—and putting in as president a pygmy.

At that time it was rare for a man of this skin-pigmentation or stature (much the less both) to hold down a top-power post in one of these swank agencies, and these two handicaps would have been difficult to overcome—though perhaps could have been overcome in due time had the chap shown a reasonable amount of savoir-faire and general ability, or the promise of developing it. In this case, however, Grand had apparently paid the man to behave in an eccentric manner—to scurry about the offices like a squirrel and to chatter raucously in his native tongue. It was more than a nuisance.

An account executive, for example, might be entertaining an extremely important client in his own office, a little tête-à-tête of the very first seriousness—perhaps with an emissary of one of the soap-flake kings—when the door would burst open and in would fly the president, scrambling across the room and under the desk, shrieking pure gibberish, and then out he’d go again, scuttling crabwise over the carpet, teeth and eyes blazing.

“What in God’s name was that?” the client would ask, looking slowly about, his face pocked with a terrible frown.

“Why, that . . . that . . . ” But the a.e. could not bring himself to tell, not after the first few times anyway. Evidently it was a matter of pride.

Later this a.e. might run into one of his friends from another agency, and the friend would greet him:

“Say, hear you’ve got a new number one over at J.R., Tommy—what’s the chap like?”

“Well, as a matter of fact, Bert . . .”

“You don’t mean the old boy’s got you on the
mat
already, Tommy. Ha-ha.
That
what you’re trying to say?”

“No, Bert, it’s . . . well I don’t know, Bert, I
just don’t know.”

It was a matter of pride, of course. As against it, salaries had been given a fairly stiff boost,
and
titles. If these dapper execs were to go to another agency now, it would be at a considerable loss of dollars and cents. Most of the old-timers—and the younger ones too, actually—had what it took to stick it out there at J.R.

“T
HESE SWEET FLUFFS
are
good,” said Ginger Horton, daintily taking what was perhaps her ninth cream puff from a great silver tray at hand, and giving Guy Grand a most coquettish look.

“Takes one to know one,” said Guy, beaming and rolling his eyes.

Esther twittered, and Agnes looked extremely pleased.

Grand made quite a splash in the fall of ’58 when he entered the “big-car” field with his sports line of Black Devil Rockets, a gigantic convertible. There were four models of the Rocket, each with a different fanciful name, though, except for the color of the upholstery, all four cars were identical. The big convertible was scaled in the proportions of an ordinary automobile, but was tremendous in size—was, in fact,
longer and wider than the largest Greyhound Bus in operation.

“THERE’S POWER TO SPARE UNDER THIS BIG BABY’S FORTY-FOOT HOOD!” was a sales claim that gained attention.

Fronting the glittering crystal dash were two “racing-cup” seats with a distance of ten feet between them, and the big “gang’s-all-here” seat in back would accommodate twelve varsity crewmen abreast in roomy comfort.

“Buy Yourself One
Whale
of a Car, Buddy!” read the giant ads. “From Stem to Stern She’s a Flat One Hundred Feet! Ladylike Lines on a He-Man Hunk of Car!”

Performance figures were generally side-stepped, but a number of three-color billboards and full-page ads were headed:
“Performance?
Ask the Fella Behind the Wheel!” and featured, in apparently authentic testimonial, one of the Indianapolis speed kings behind the wheel of the mammoth convertible. A larger than average man, he was incredibly dwarfed by the immense dimensions of the car. His tiny face, just visible at the top of the wheel, was split in a grin of insanity, like a toothpaste ad, a madman’s laugh frozen at the nightmare peak of hilarity, and it was captioned:

“Getting the feel of this big baby has been one real thrill, believe you me!”

The four identical models were shown at a display room on Fifth Avenue, and though considered beyond the price range of most, were evidently sold. At any rate, on the last day of the exposition they were driven away, out and into the streets of mid-town Manhattan during the five o’clock rush.

Despite their roominess, power, and road-holding potential, the big cars did prove impractical in the city, because their turning-arc—for the ordinary 90° change of direction—was greater than the distance between the street-angled buildings, so that by five thirty all four of the sleek Devil Rockets were wedged at angles across various intersections around Columbus Circle, each a barrier to thoroughfare in four directions, and causing quite a snarl indeed until cranes and derricks could be brought up from the East River to pry the big cars out.

New York authorities were quick to respond to the flood of protests and got out an injunction to prevent Black Devil Rocket Corp. from further production.

“Personally,” said one high-ranking city official, in an off-the-record remark in defense of the court’s ruling—which was, after all, a flagrant infringement on the rights of free enterprise—“. . .
personally
I frankly think the car is an ugly car and a . . . a
pretentious
car, and, as experience has shown us, it is an impractical car. I’ll bet it’s plenty expensive to run, too.”

At last account though, Grand—himself fairly well in the background—was carrying on, pressing his fight to get the go-ahead and swing into full production with the big baby.

“Y
OU MUST STAY
to dinner, Ginger,” said Agnes. “And there
might
be a nice bit of fillet for our Bitsy,” she added knowingly. “Do let me tell Cook you will!”

“But, my dear, we simply couldn’t,” said Ginger, casting a look flushed with girlish pride down at her own great scanty costume. “What about your nigras?”

“Cook and kitchen staff?” said Agnes, genuinely surprised. “Why, Ginger, really! But what’s your feeling on it, Guy?”

“Sorry, don’t follow,” said Guy.

“Well, Ginger seems to think that our servers might be . . . might be . . .”

“Might be sent straight off their rockers with bestial desire, you mean?” asked Grand tersely. “Hmm—Ginger may be right. Better safe than sorry in these matters I’ve always said.”

Guy liked playing the fool, it’s true—though some say there was more to his antics than met the eye. At any rate, one amusing diversion in which he took a central role himself was when he played
grand gourmet
at the world’s most luxurious restaurants.

Guy would arrive in faultless evening attire, attended by his poker-faced valet, who carried a special gourmet’s chair and a large valise of additional equipment. The chair, heavily weighted at the bottom so it could not be easily overturned, was also fitted with a big waist strap which was firmly secured around Grand’s middle as soon as he was seated. Then the valet would take from the valise a huge rubber bib and attach it to Guy while the latter surveyed the menu in avid conference with a bevy of hosts—the maître d’, the senior waiter, the wine steward, and at least one member of the chef’s staff.

Guy Grand was the last of the big spenders and, as such, a great favorite at these restaurants; due to his eccentric behavior during the meal however, the management always took care to place him at a table as decentralized as possible—on the edge of the terrace, in a softly lit alcove, or, preferably, at a table entirely obscured by a canopy arrangement which many restaurants, after his first visit, saw fit to have on hand for Guy’s return.

Following the lengthy discussion to determine the various courses, the waist strap was checked, and Guy would sit back in his chair, rubbing his hands together in sophisticated anticipation of the taste treats to come.

When the first course did arrive, an extraordinary spectacle would occur. At the food’s very aroma, Grand, still sitting well back from the table, as in fanatical self-restraint, would begin to writhe ecstatically in his chair, eyes rolling, head lolling, saliva streaming over his ruddy jowls. Then he would suddenly stiffen, his face a mask of quivering urgency, before shouting:
“Au tablet”
whereupon he would lurch forward, both arms cupped out across the table, and wildly scoop the food, dishes and all, towards his open mouth. Following this fantastic clatter and commotion—which left him covered from the top of his head to his waist with food—the expressionless valet would lean forward and unfasten the chair strap, and Guy would bolt from the table and rush pell-mell towards the kitchen, covered and dripping with food, hair matted with it, one arm extended full length as in a congratulatory handshake, shouting at the top of his voice:

“MES COMPLIMENTS AU CHEF!”

Upon his return to the table, he would be strapped into the chair again, hosed-down by a little water pump from the valet’s case, and dried with a big towel; then the performance would be repeated with each course.

Restaurants who used a special canopy to conceal Grand from the other diners did so at considerable risk, because at the moment of completing each course he would bolt for the kitchen so quickly that, unless the waiters were extremely alert and dexterous in pulling aside the canopy, he would bring the thing down on his head and, like a man in a collapsed tent, would flail about inside it, upsetting the table, and adding to the general disturbance, or worse, as sometimes did happen, he might regain his feet within the canopy and careen blindly through the plush restaurant, toppling diners everywhere, and spreading the disturbance—and, of course, if he ever reached the kitchen while still inside the canopy, it could be actually calamitous.