come visit?” Sue Lin said, shyly.
“Oh, sure, come visit,” I said. “And tell T.R. to call me anytime. If she doesn’t call I’ll just drop by tomorrow.”
“You can sleep late,” Dew said. “T.R. don’t go on till noon tomorrow.”
“You know, Dew, I may just sleep late,” I said.
22
I was deep in sleep, indeed deep in dream, when T.R. called.
“How come you decided not to bring the airplane?” she asked.
“What airplane?” I asked, for a moment completely disoriented.
“The airplane you said you was gonna come in,” she said testily. It obviously was not bothering her that I had been asleep.
“Oh, that one,” I said.
“Was that just one of your lies?” she asked.
“No,” I said. “What do you mean, one of my lies? I’ve only known you a day. I haven’t had time to think up any lies.”
“It don’t take long to think up lies,” she said, unimpressed. “I’ve known people who could think up about a hundred a second.”
“I could do that at one point, but now I’m old,” I said. “I’m slowing down. My lie machine’s a little rusty.”
There was a pause.
“Are you old?” she asked in a softer tone. “I don’t think of you that way.”
That was interesting—my daughter thought of me.
“How did you have me pictured?” I inquired. I was beginning to feel a little more wakeful.
“Young and handsome and rich,” she said.
“I was never handsome, and I was young only briefly,” I said. “After all, I’m your father—that implies a certain age. But I am rich.”
“I wish you’d brought the airplane,” she said. “I told the kids about it. They’re gonna be disappointed. They ain’t never even rode in an airplane.”
“Have you ridden in one?” I asked.
“What do you care, you never even come to see me!” she said with a flash of anger. Then she hung up.
23
The dream I had been having when T.R. woke me up was a typical fight-on-the-set dream from the days of “Al and Sal.” Nema Remington had been erupting—volcanic imagery was the only imagery that adequately described one of Nema’s fits. Nema’s worst enemy would not have denied that she was a force of nature; though she was a tiny woman, cyclonic imagery was still invariably used to describe the kind of destructive force she could focus on a sitcom set when she chose to.
Fortunately she didn’t unleash her full power very often. If she had, the show would not have lasted a year. Nema was, in fact, easy to get along with as long as certain conditions were respected. Food, sleep, and sex were three things she required in abundance, but if she even got any one of the three in abundance, the weather on the set was usually sunny. On the whole it didn’t do to starve her in any of the primary areas. A good deal of the time she had spent as an actress had been spent at the bottom of the heap as the cheapest of cheap cuts in the meat market that is Hollywood. For years she had had to scrambleeven to land a commercial; some years she
couldn’t
land a commercial and made ends meet waiting tables.
Stardom, therefore, had not given Nema the illusion that life is perfect; she didn’t expect every minute of every day to go her way, but she was sensitive to insult and was often thrown into violent conflict with her costar, Morgan Underwood, the actor who played Al. Unkind items about Nema’s highhanded behavior on the set were always appearing in the gutter press, all of them planted, in Nema’s opinion, by Morgan Under-wood.
Morgan Underwood was no angel—the word “chauvinist” might have been coined expressly to describe his behavior—but as the producer-creator of the show I took a more complex view of the matter, which was that most of the tawdry items that so infuriated Nema were actually planted by Morgan Underwood’s
secretary
, without his knowledge. Not a few tawdry items about Morgan himself had also found their way into the gutter press—
all
TV press is gutter press—and these,
“Oh, sure, come visit,” I said. “And tell T.R. to call me anytime. If she doesn’t call I’ll just drop by tomorrow.”
“You can sleep late,” Dew said. “T.R. don’t go on till noon tomorrow.”
“You know, Dew, I may just sleep late,” I said.
22
I was deep in sleep, indeed deep in dream, when T.R. called.
“How come you decided not to bring the airplane?” she asked.
“What airplane?” I asked, for a moment completely disoriented.
“The airplane you said you was gonna come in,” she said testily. It obviously was not bothering her that I had been asleep.
“Oh, that one,” I said.
“Was that just one of your lies?” she asked.
“No,” I said. “What do you mean, one of my lies? I’ve only known you a day. I haven’t had time to think up any lies.”
“It don’t take long to think up lies,” she said, unimpressed. “I’ve known people who could think up about a hundred a second.”
“I could do that at one point, but now I’m old,” I said. “I’m slowing down. My lie machine’s a little rusty.”
There was a pause.
“Are you old?” she asked in a softer tone. “I don’t think of you that way.”
That was interesting—my daughter thought of me.
“How did you have me pictured?” I inquired. I was beginning to feel a little more wakeful.
“Young and handsome and rich,” she said.
“I was never handsome, and I was young only briefly,” I said. “After all, I’m your father—that implies a certain age. But I am rich.”
“I wish you’d brought the airplane,” she said. “I told the kids about it. They’re gonna be disappointed. They ain’t never even rode in an airplane.”
“Have you ridden in one?” I asked.
“What do you care, you never even come to see me!” she said with a flash of anger. Then she hung up.
23
The dream I had been having when T.R. woke me up was a typical fight-on-the-set dream from the days of “Al and Sal.” Nema Remington had been erupting—volcanic imagery was the only imagery that adequately described one of Nema’s fits. Nema’s worst enemy would not have denied that she was a force of nature; though she was a tiny woman, cyclonic imagery was still invariably used to describe the kind of destructive force she could focus on a sitcom set when she chose to.
Fortunately she didn’t unleash her full power very often. If she had, the show would not have lasted a year. Nema was, in fact, easy to get along with as long as certain conditions were respected. Food, sleep, and sex were three things she required in abundance, but if she even got any one of the three in abundance, the weather on the set was usually sunny. On the whole it didn’t do to starve her in any of the primary areas. A good deal of the time she had spent as an actress had been spent at the bottom of the heap as the cheapest of cheap cuts in the meat market that is Hollywood. For years she had had to scrambleeven to land a commercial; some years she
couldn’t
land a commercial and made ends meet waiting tables.
Stardom, therefore, had not given Nema the illusion that life is perfect; she didn’t expect every minute of every day to go her way, but she was sensitive to insult and was often thrown into violent conflict with her costar, Morgan Underwood, the actor who played Al. Unkind items about Nema’s highhanded behavior on the set were always appearing in the gutter press, all of them planted, in Nema’s opinion, by Morgan Under-wood.
Morgan Underwood was no angel—the word “chauvinist” might have been coined expressly to describe his behavior—but as the producer-creator of the show I took a more complex view of the matter, which was that most of the tawdry items that so infuriated Nema were actually planted by Morgan Underwood’s
secretary
, without his knowledge. Not a few tawdry items about Morgan himself had also found their way into the gutter press—
all
TV press is gutter press—and these,
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