She fetched coffee and cigarettes and typed and answered the phone . . .
“And after three years I felt I was qualified to move up,” she concluded. “It took me one year to find a producer who agreed with me.”
I didn’t know you’d been married, he wanted to say, but caught himself, because he didn’t want to bring up what must be a painful memory. He just wanted to savor this new thing he had learned about her: that she was the marrying kind.
Or had been, before she’d gotten so wrapped up in her work.
“What happened to the guy who hired you?” he asked. “Didn’t he want to move you up for promotion?”
She shook her head. “He took medical retirement three months after I started work. Not because of me, I hasten to add. A long-standing battle with ulcers.”
“And you still think it’s magic?”
“Yep. Only I’m looking at it from the magician’s point of view, where the work is. Out there in the audience, I know there are still people like Grandpa, waiting for the time to pass till they can tune in to their favorite show.”
“You don’t think they pass too much of that time in front of the TV, watching crap?”
Her chin came up. “I think people can make up their own minds and set their own limits on TV. We don’t have limits on radio, magazines, newspapers, or library books, do we? And what seems like junk viewing to me might be your favorite light entertainment—”
“Hold it,” he said, laughing. “I’m not the FCC or the CIA or anybody—I just want to know how you feel about the business you’re in.”
“I guess I’m thin-skinned,” she admitted. “I get tired of reading all the criticism. Sure, we’re boring to some and we can be misused, just like Cokes and Hershey bars can make you fat and sick. But if we weren’t doing something right, people around the world wouldn’t be watching American TV more than they watch their own programming. That’s a fact most people don’t realize, but it happens to be true.”
Dinner came: thin, dark red slices of sun-cured mountain ham, jamon serrano , with a rich Spanish omelette and—since Keith was more or less in training—mugs of leche caliente , hot sweetened milk. As they ate, Sharon wondered if she had sounded foolishly one-sided in defending television. So she talked of some of the problems Keith might encounter if he chose to enter the field: union walkouts, personality conflicts, survival by ratings and marketing studies.
“I’m sure all that’s true,” he said when she had finished, “but the same things apply in any other business that sells a product to the public, don’t they?” And watching her nod in agreement and sip delicately at her milk, watching the smooth, controlled way she moved her hands, the changing surfaces of her bared neck and throat, he thought, She’s happy enough without you .
Suppose he did fall in love with her, marry her, get a job in TV, or just tend to his own investments—would she want to stop traveling and stay home for him? Or would he tag along, idling away hour waiting for her to finish work, falling asleep on her sofa or watching TV in her hotel room? She seemed to him suddenly a separate world, sufficient unto herself, almost as though she were another man’s wife. Which she had been, he reminded himself. He glanced around the room, momentarily expecting to see pictures of the lost family, but there were none. Except for a miniature TV-clock-radio on the table beside the bed, and a small gold statuette on the dressing table, the room might have been vacant.
“What’s the statue?”
She smiled. “That’s my unofficial Emmy. From Larry. If you look up close, you can see it’s got a little purple heart.”
Married to her work, he thought. The digital readout on her bedside TV clock said 2:45. “I’d better let you get some sleep,” he said, and pushed his chair back from the room-service table cart. “Next time, maybe I can take you out and catch some of the
“And after three years I felt I was qualified to move up,” she concluded. “It took me one year to find a producer who agreed with me.”
I didn’t know you’d been married, he wanted to say, but caught himself, because he didn’t want to bring up what must be a painful memory. He just wanted to savor this new thing he had learned about her: that she was the marrying kind.
Or had been, before she’d gotten so wrapped up in her work.
“What happened to the guy who hired you?” he asked. “Didn’t he want to move you up for promotion?”
She shook her head. “He took medical retirement three months after I started work. Not because of me, I hasten to add. A long-standing battle with ulcers.”
“And you still think it’s magic?”
“Yep. Only I’m looking at it from the magician’s point of view, where the work is. Out there in the audience, I know there are still people like Grandpa, waiting for the time to pass till they can tune in to their favorite show.”
“You don’t think they pass too much of that time in front of the TV, watching crap?”
Her chin came up. “I think people can make up their own minds and set their own limits on TV. We don’t have limits on radio, magazines, newspapers, or library books, do we? And what seems like junk viewing to me might be your favorite light entertainment—”
“Hold it,” he said, laughing. “I’m not the FCC or the CIA or anybody—I just want to know how you feel about the business you’re in.”
“I guess I’m thin-skinned,” she admitted. “I get tired of reading all the criticism. Sure, we’re boring to some and we can be misused, just like Cokes and Hershey bars can make you fat and sick. But if we weren’t doing something right, people around the world wouldn’t be watching American TV more than they watch their own programming. That’s a fact most people don’t realize, but it happens to be true.”
Dinner came: thin, dark red slices of sun-cured mountain ham, jamon serrano , with a rich Spanish omelette and—since Keith was more or less in training—mugs of leche caliente , hot sweetened milk. As they ate, Sharon wondered if she had sounded foolishly one-sided in defending television. So she talked of some of the problems Keith might encounter if he chose to enter the field: union walkouts, personality conflicts, survival by ratings and marketing studies.
“I’m sure all that’s true,” he said when she had finished, “but the same things apply in any other business that sells a product to the public, don’t they?” And watching her nod in agreement and sip delicately at her milk, watching the smooth, controlled way she moved her hands, the changing surfaces of her bared neck and throat, he thought, She’s happy enough without you .
Suppose he did fall in love with her, marry her, get a job in TV, or just tend to his own investments—would she want to stop traveling and stay home for him? Or would he tag along, idling away hour waiting for her to finish work, falling asleep on her sofa or watching TV in her hotel room? She seemed to him suddenly a separate world, sufficient unto herself, almost as though she were another man’s wife. Which she had been, he reminded himself. He glanced around the room, momentarily expecting to see pictures of the lost family, but there were none. Except for a miniature TV-clock-radio on the table beside the bed, and a small gold statuette on the dressing table, the room might have been vacant.
“What’s the statue?”
She smiled. “That’s my unofficial Emmy. From Larry. If you look up close, you can see it’s got a little purple heart.”
Married to her work, he thought. The digital readout on her bedside TV clock said 2:45. “I’d better let you get some sleep,” he said, and pushed his chair back from the room-service table cart. “Next time, maybe I can take you out and catch some of the
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