bragged that his unit’s reports were
the only ones never sponsored by anything that flashed an on-screen
800 number. He had real sponsors, no small boast at the network
built by Slim Whitman and Ginsu knives.
“Robin, let me tell you something I learned
over the years I’ve been lucky enough to make a living in this
business,” McGravy said.
Uh-oh. I smelled a
“When-I-worked-with-Murrow” story coming. This usually involved a
homey anecdote or parable about some character he knew in the early
days of television, culminating in an odd moral.
Sure enough, McGravy told me about a man he
used to work with at CBS, back in the olden, golden days before
color transmission, who had a lot of talent but a bad temper. He
could never compromise and not only did it make him unpopular
around the office but it ruined several of his shows. One day, just
as his show was about to go to air, he had a massive coronary and
died. It was like a bad smell was removed from the place, McGravy
said. Nobody missed him.
He paused and I knew the big finish was
coming.
“The thing is, if you’re talented you can get
away with being a sonofabitch, but nobody misses a sonofabitch when
he dies.”
Oh, like when I’m dead I’m going to care, I
almost said. But then I remembered that I respect this man, so I
held my tongue.
I knew what he was trying to tell me, and I
knew he was right. I had to be nicer to other people, be cooler,
panic less, cuss less, smile more. Deep down, I knew all this and
yet it galled me—it absolutely galled me—to have to take orders
from Jerry Spurdle, a man for whom I had no respect, for whom I had
nothing but contempt, a man who believed a woman was only a vehicle
for the transport of her breasts.
“I could make Spurdle fire me,” I said. “ANN
would have to pay out my contract.”
“I have no doubt.”
“He shouldn’t fool with a woman who knows his
credit card number. Because living well is not the best revenge,
Bob. The best revenge, in my opinion, is huge crates of Depend
adult diapers delivered to his apartment door. Or live chickens
maybe . . .”
“Don’t do it, Robin. Nobody will hire you in
this town right now. Nobody will hire you in Washington or L.A.
either. You’ll end up doing paid programming or pollen stories on
the Weather Channel for the rest of your life.” He stood up and
leaned over the desk for emphasis.
“No, I won’t.”
“You’ll be selling tooth whitener at four in
the morning on Nickelodeon. If you’re lucky. Because there are guys
like Jerry everywhere, and sooner or later you have to learn how to
deal with them. You’d better do it sooner, Robin.”
“I’m not going to kiss Jerry’s ass. . .
.”
“I’m not asking you to kiss his ass. I expect
you to stand up to him, to fight to lower the sleaze factor. But
quitting is backing away from a fight just because it isn’t turning
out precisely the way you want at the moment. Don’t chicken out. If
you stay here, do your time in Special Reports, pretty soon
everyone will forget about the . . . belch and the cannibalism
thing, and I’ll be able to safely move you back to general
news—maybe. But be patient, and remember, as the old saying goes,
you get more flies with honey that with vinegar.”
“Well, if you really want flies, you ought to
try bullshit,” I said. “It’s an old folk remedy.”
“I have faith in you, Robin, for whatever
it’s worth,” Bob said. He wound up a monkey with cymbals and sent
it towards me.
“It’s worth a lot, Bob.”
The monkey clanged its cymbals.
Chapter Four
BEFORE I WENT TO KAFKA’S, I had to stop at
home to change clothes and to feed my dictatorial cat. Louise
Bryant greeted me at the door with a contemptuous howl.
“Relax, you’re not starving,” I said to
her.
Knowing that tone of voice, she adopted
another tactic, kissing ass, rubbing her back against my leg and
looking up at me with something almost like affection. If I didn’t
feed her soon,
the only ones never sponsored by anything that flashed an on-screen
800 number. He had real sponsors, no small boast at the network
built by Slim Whitman and Ginsu knives.
“Robin, let me tell you something I learned
over the years I’ve been lucky enough to make a living in this
business,” McGravy said.
Uh-oh. I smelled a
“When-I-worked-with-Murrow” story coming. This usually involved a
homey anecdote or parable about some character he knew in the early
days of television, culminating in an odd moral.
Sure enough, McGravy told me about a man he
used to work with at CBS, back in the olden, golden days before
color transmission, who had a lot of talent but a bad temper. He
could never compromise and not only did it make him unpopular
around the office but it ruined several of his shows. One day, just
as his show was about to go to air, he had a massive coronary and
died. It was like a bad smell was removed from the place, McGravy
said. Nobody missed him.
He paused and I knew the big finish was
coming.
“The thing is, if you’re talented you can get
away with being a sonofabitch, but nobody misses a sonofabitch when
he dies.”
Oh, like when I’m dead I’m going to care, I
almost said. But then I remembered that I respect this man, so I
held my tongue.
I knew what he was trying to tell me, and I
knew he was right. I had to be nicer to other people, be cooler,
panic less, cuss less, smile more. Deep down, I knew all this and
yet it galled me—it absolutely galled me—to have to take orders
from Jerry Spurdle, a man for whom I had no respect, for whom I had
nothing but contempt, a man who believed a woman was only a vehicle
for the transport of her breasts.
“I could make Spurdle fire me,” I said. “ANN
would have to pay out my contract.”
“I have no doubt.”
“He shouldn’t fool with a woman who knows his
credit card number. Because living well is not the best revenge,
Bob. The best revenge, in my opinion, is huge crates of Depend
adult diapers delivered to his apartment door. Or live chickens
maybe . . .”
“Don’t do it, Robin. Nobody will hire you in
this town right now. Nobody will hire you in Washington or L.A.
either. You’ll end up doing paid programming or pollen stories on
the Weather Channel for the rest of your life.” He stood up and
leaned over the desk for emphasis.
“No, I won’t.”
“You’ll be selling tooth whitener at four in
the morning on Nickelodeon. If you’re lucky. Because there are guys
like Jerry everywhere, and sooner or later you have to learn how to
deal with them. You’d better do it sooner, Robin.”
“I’m not going to kiss Jerry’s ass. . .
.”
“I’m not asking you to kiss his ass. I expect
you to stand up to him, to fight to lower the sleaze factor. But
quitting is backing away from a fight just because it isn’t turning
out precisely the way you want at the moment. Don’t chicken out. If
you stay here, do your time in Special Reports, pretty soon
everyone will forget about the . . . belch and the cannibalism
thing, and I’ll be able to safely move you back to general
news—maybe. But be patient, and remember, as the old saying goes,
you get more flies with honey that with vinegar.”
“Well, if you really want flies, you ought to
try bullshit,” I said. “It’s an old folk remedy.”
“I have faith in you, Robin, for whatever
it’s worth,” Bob said. He wound up a monkey with cymbals and sent
it towards me.
“It’s worth a lot, Bob.”
The monkey clanged its cymbals.
Chapter Four
BEFORE I WENT TO KAFKA’S, I had to stop at
home to change clothes and to feed my dictatorial cat. Louise
Bryant greeted me at the door with a contemptuous howl.
“Relax, you’re not starving,” I said to
her.
Knowing that tone of voice, she adopted
another tactic, kissing ass, rubbing her back against my leg and
looking up at me with something almost like affection. If I didn’t
feed her soon,
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