The Dick Gibson Show (36 page)

D
ICK
G
IBSON
: [Getting mad at him: there is no reason for grown men to clam up before a microphone. He imagines Vendler in his delicatessen, kibitzing the customers, his mouth going a mile a minute as he slices meat at the machine, the authority of the merchant on him. What was there to fear from a microphone? He spent too much time reassuring his guests, talking them down from where they were treed in their shyness. Damn their timidity, their deference. Then, when they finally did speak out—just look at Jack and Pepper and Bernie—they went around with a hangover from their words.]

Yes, eh?

A
RTHUR
V
ENDLER
:
(nervously)
Sure.

D
ICK
G
IBSON
: You know what I’m thinking?

A
RTHUR
V
ENDLER
: What’s that?

D
ICK
G
IBSON
: [Terrific—a regular Mr. Show Business, this Vendler.]

It must cost you twenty-five to thirty dollars a week to make up these trays for us. That’s four weeks a month, twelve months a year. You’d be better off taking a regular spot on the show, buying time and letting us do a commercial for you. You’d be surprised how low the rates are this time of night.

[Mad at Jerry too, now.]

Of course Jerry might quit if you didn’t bring the sandwiches around, but maybe not. He seems to have lost his appetite anyway. Think it over. Of course you might be doing something on the tax angle. I didn’t think of that aspect of it.

A
RTHUR
V
ENDLER
: Listen, I don’t—

D
ICK
G
IBSON
: Sure. What do
I
know about it?

A
RTHUR
V
ENDLER
: I’ve got to be getting back.

D
ICK
G
IBSON
: Haban Nagila, kid.

A
RTHUR
V
ENDLER
: Where’s my lazy susan?

D
ICK
G
IBSON
: Lying down.

[Vendler leaves the studio. Dick Gibson thinks, I am cutting my losses, and stares at Mel Son—
this is air-time, this is while they are on the air, no one is saying anything, their silence is being sent out over the ether
—and scowls Behr-Bleibtreauly. He has some hope. Mel’s uneasy. His eyes dart angrily. His behavior isn’t the withdrawal of the others, but seems, rather, an effort to keep control of himself. Perhaps Mel is Jewish; maybe he resents the way Dick has treated Vendler. But the man won’t talk. Dick gives him every opportunity. Well, Mel, tell, he thinks. But it’s hopeless. Perhaps three minutes have gone by since they came back on the air. And then he thinks—the guests in the studio. He announces their names, making up one for those he has forgotten or never knew. Then he makes up other names and gives their place of business. Then he thinks: the telegrams.]

We should be getting some telegrams about now.

[He looks at Jerry.]

No? Nothing in yet? Well, the lines are open. If anyone has a question for Professor Behr-Bleibtreau, send us a telegram at WHCN, Hartford, Connecticut. I’ll accept collect wires. Please keep your messages under ten words. Ask the Professor. Or, if you have questions for one of the panel members—
Mr. Son, for example
—we’ll entertain those as well. Or perhaps you don’t have a question at all. Maybe you just want to make a comment. Make it at our expense.

[Interrogatives. Declaratives. Let’s see, that leaves exclamatives.]

Just tell the operator you want to send a collect wire to me, Dick Gibson—that’s D-i-c-k G-i-b-s-o-n—care of WHCN—W- H-C-N—Hartford—H-a-r-t-f-o-r-d—Connecticut—C-o-n- n-e-c- t-i-c-u-t. Or, if you’d rather abbreviate it, C-o-n-n. Talk it over with the Western Union operator; see what she says.

[Okay, that’s another minute. Only a hundred and five to go. Now what?]

But he
knew
now what. Behr-Bleibtreau, that’s what. Behr-Bleibtreau knew too. The man still smiled, but Dick sensed that the smile had shifted, amusement no longer but something preceding damage. Perhaps he sensed Dick’s dread and was annoyed that it had not been enough to silence him. (Though in a way he had been silenced; he could think of no more ways to kill time.) Looking at his panel, Dick was suddenly consumed with sympathy for them. The professor had their tongues, and now he was after his. He thought of signing off early, declaring the evening at an end, paying the lost revenues from the remaining commercials out of his own pocket. But then the professor would have his tongue too. Dick, who had no character, wanted to beat him.

The mistake the others had made was that they had gone too far. He would keep it down. He would ask Behr-Bleibtreau how he liked Hartford, to compare it with other places he had been. Behr-Bleibtreau was waiting to see what he would do. Just keep cool, Dick warned himself, small talk, everything low key and easy, no more drama. Just relax and say—

D
ICK
G
IBSON
:
(almost shouting) All right, Professor, what the hell’s all this crap about a loaded gun?

B
EHR
-B
LEIBTREAU
: Please pass the sandwiches.

D
ICK
G
IBSON
: The sandwiches? I’m talking about loaded guns.

B
EHR
-B
LEIBTREAU
: I’m talking about sandwiches. Is there turkey? Is there dark meat?

D
ICK
G
IBSON
: [Grabbing his microphone suddenly. If they saw him his radio audience might think he was an ace reporter, urgent, shirt-sleeved, like someone on the radio in the movies with a scoop.]

Ladies and gentlemen, you don’t know what’s been going on here tonight! My panelists are unable to speak! This man has something to do with it. It’s a trick. Perhaps they’re hypnotized. I don’t know how he does it, he doesn’t touch them, he swings no pendulum, but
something’s
happened,
something’s
up! He’s after me too.
(to Behr-Bleibtreau)
Is that it?

B
EHR
-B
LEIBTREAU
: I don’t see the bottle opener. Would you swing the lazy susan around this way, please? Perhaps it’s on your side of the tray. Oh, never mind. Here it is.

D
ICK
G
IBSON
: Don’t listen to him. He doesn’t have a bottle opener. He’s not looking for one. There isn’t even any soda in his hand. I don’t know what his game is, but he’s giving you a false picture.

B
EHR
-B
LEIBTREAU
: No more turkey? I’ll take the corned beef. I’m asking for indigestion, I think, but it looks marvelous.

D
ICK
G
IBSON
: Don’t believe him. He’s
not
asking for indigestion. He’s not
eating!

B
EHR
-B
LEIBTREAU
: The bread’s stale. Where’s the mustard? Would you pass me that plastic knife?

D
ICK
G
IBSON
: The bread’s
fresh!
There’s
already
mustard on the sandwiches!

B
EHR
-B
LEIBTREAU
: It’s rather warm in the studio. May I take off my jacket?

D
ICK
G
IBSON
: He’s wearing a sweater.

B
EHR
-B
LEIBTREAU
: Whoops, sorry. That was clumsy of me. I seem to have smeared some ketchup on my glasses while I was getting out of my jacket. Could you hand me one of those paper napkins?

D
ICK
G
IBSON
: He’s still in his sweater. He doesn’t wear glasses. The napkins are right in front of him.

J
ACK
P
ATTERSON
: Here you are. Doctor.

B
EHR
-B
LEIBTREAU
: Thank you. Professor Patterson.

D
ICK
G
IBSON
: Patterson never opened his mouth. Behr-Bleibtreau’s a ventriloquist! What’s going on here? Why are you lying to my listeners?

B
EHR
-B
LEIBTREAU
: But it’s
you
who are lying, Mr. Gibson. I must confess I don’t understand what you hope to accomplish.

D
ICK
G
IBSON
: What do you want?

B
EHR
-B
LEIBTREAU
: I want a napkin. I want the mustard. I want the plastic knife.

D
ICK
G
IBSON
: What color are the walls in this studio?

B
EHR
-B
LEIBTREAU
: The walls? Pale yellow, aren’t they?

D
ICK
G
IBSON
: They’re
white!
What color’s my tie?

B
EHR
-B
LEIBTREAU
: Well, it’s all colors. There’s red and there’s green. It’s a pattern. It’s all colors.

D
ICK
G
IBSON
: It’s
blue,
it’s
solid
blue! What are you doing? I’ll ask the people in the studio. What color is this tie I’m wearing?

B
EHR
-B
LEIBTREAU
: All right, there’s no point in that. Leave it alone. All right, I’ll confess. I’ve been having some fun with you.

B
EHR
-B
LEIBTREAU
: Very clever imitation of my voice, Mr. Gibson. You ought to do this sort of thing professionally—in nightclubs.

D
ICK
G
IBSON
: Thank you very much, Doctor.

D
ICK
G
IBSON
: You mean
you
ought to. Ladies and gentlemen, I didn’t imitate him. He imitated
me.

B
EHR
-B
LEIBTREAU
:
Look out!

D
ICK
G
IBSON
: He also imitated me saying “Ladies and gentlemen, I didn’t imitate
him.
He imitated
me.”
I haven’t said anything since I asked the studio audience about the color of my tie.

D
ICK
G
IBSON
: He said that too.

B
EHR
-B
LEIBTREAU
:
Look out! He’s got a gun!

D
ICK
G
IBSON
: Oh, ho!
That
was a mistake, Dr. Behr-Bleibtreau. I think I’ll just sit this one out.
I
don’t see any gun. If he has one—whoever
he
may be—he should be making some demands along about now. He should be saying “Hands up! Give me your money and nobody’ll get hurt,” or “Don’t anyone move, I’m taking the woman with me.” People with guns can be very articulate about what they want.

B
EHR
-B
LEIBTREAU
:
What if they’re suicidal?

D
ICK
G
IBSON
: What are you talking about? What do you mean?

B
EHR
-B
LEIBTREAU
: What if they intend to kill themselves? What if the gun is still concealed and they intend to shoot themselves?

D
ICK
G
IBSON
: Look, come on. Who’s supposed to have this gun? If someone
really
has a gun—

B
EHR
-B
LEIBTREAU
: Tell him.
(silence)
Go ahead, tell him. I release your tongue. You may speak,
(silence)

D
ICK
G
IBSON
: There. You see? I don’t deny, of course, that Mr. Behr-Bleibtreau could come up with an appropriate voice, but I wonder how convincing his bang bang would be.