FROM: David Regan
TO: Sam Martin
In re new product BEARDS AWAY! Specific instructions from the Coast warn against trying to release lather before removing nozzle cap. This is a simple screw-type cap, easily removed with thumb and forefinger. It is essential to show this on camera before pressing the stud on the top of the can. Failure to remove cap will result in malfunction of the can. It’s a good new product and deserves the full treatment, Sam. So, at the risk of sounding redundant, please REMOVE NOZZLE CAP BEFORE PRESSING RELEASE STUD.
He looked over the memo. He put the original in an ash tray and set fire to it with a match. He emptied the ashes into a trash basket, folded the carbon of the memo three times, and stuck it into his inside jacket pocket together with his electric bill and a letter from his mother, and some cards he dug out of his wallet. Then he took another deep breath and left the office.
Curt Sonderman said, “Where the hell have you been, David?”
“Downstairs having a smoke,” David said. “Why? What’s the matter?” His heart was pounding. He fought to keep his eyes from blinking. His lips felt parched, but he would not wet them.
“What’s the matter?” Sonderman said. “Didn’t you see what happened with the shaving cream? The damn thing went off all over the stage!”
Calmly, smiling, David said, “Come on, don’t kid me.”
“If you think I’m kidding, you should have taken that call from Los Angeles. Now, what happened?”
“I don’t understand,” David said. “You mean the can exploded?”
“Yes, the can... no, it didn’t actually explode. It just... look, why didn’t you explain the operation to Martin?”
“Pressing the button? Why it’s so simple a child can—”
“Don’t give me the ‘child can do it’ routine. Sam Martin had to do it, not a child. Why didn’t you tell him to take that cap off the nozzle?”
“Cap off the...?” David stopped and looked at Sonderman skeptically. “You are kidding,” he said. “I told him about that cap at least a half-dozen times. You don’t... hey, wait a minute! What are you saying? He left the cap on? Is that what you’re saying?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying!”
“But how could... Curt, I told him about that cap personally five times during rehearsal. The last time I told him, there were three people standing there listening to us, a girl from Wardrobe, and the make-up man, and a designer. I got specific orders from the Coast on this. Do you think I’d let him go on without knowing about it? Give me a little more credit than that, Curt!”
“If you told him about it, why’d he leave the cap on?”
“How do I know? You saw the confusion this afternoon. It’s a wonder he remembered his own name. Do you think I’m lying? Are you telling me I’m lying?”
“No, but...”
“I told him about that cap, Curt!” David said angrily. “I told him at least... wait, wait a minute! I even wrote him a memo about it. I handed him the memo personally when he walked in today.”
“What memo?”
“About the... just a minute, maybe I kept a copy. Hold on, now.” He dug into his jacket pocket and began leafing through the stuff there, finally coming upon the folded carbon copy of the memo he’d just typed. “Sure, here it is,” he said. “Here. Take a look at it.” He handed the sheet of paper to Sonderman.
Sonderman read it silently. Then he shrugged.
“What the hell,” he said. “You can’t ask for more than that. You did your job, David. What the hell.” He shrugged again. “It was Sam’s goof. I’ll ask him to square it.”
Sam Martin admitted that he’d been in something of a mad rush that afternoon during rehearsal, and anything was possible. Maybe David had handed him a memo, maybe he had been reminded about that nozzle cap a half-dozen times. The wardrobe girl and the makeup man and the designer certainly seemed positive they had heard David deliver at least one reminder. “Okay, I goofed,” Martin said affably, and he agreed to call the Coast.
The next day, he made a big spiel about the shaving cream, telling his audience a new lather had exploded on the scene (Laughter), a lather so anxious to shave you, it practically bursts out of the can (Laughter). “This is the way you really work this,” Martin said, and he carefully unscrewed the nozzle cap. “If you leave the cap on, the stuff definitely will not spill or leak out of the can unless you throw it across the studio at a lousy orchestra leader.” (Laughter) “If you want to throw things at musicians, I suggest you use rocks. But if you want a good close shave that leaves you feeling refreshed and clean, I suggest you try Beards Away! It works like this.” He pressed the stud on the can’s top, and a puff of rich creamy lather foamed onto the palm of his hand. The studio audience burst into spontaneous applause. “It looks good enough to eat, don’t it?” Martin said. He winked at the camera. “It’s good stuff, folks,” he said sincerely. “Try it.”
Perhaps David grew up the day he typed that memo.
Or perhaps he only lost his innocence.
The Fourth of July fireworks were supposed to start at 9:30 P.M. They had taken the bus to Playland that afternoon and spent the day on the rides and at the various gambling booths. There was only one thing on Gillian’s mind. She tried to enjoy what they were doing, but there was only one thing on her mind, and each time she moved away from the thought it returned until she forcibly ejected it, and then stubbornly returned again. Distressed, she tried to talk of other things.
“There’s a party Saturday night,” she said. “We’re invited.”
“Oh?” David said. “Who? Where?”
“John Dimitri, you remember him.”
“Tall thin guy with blond hair? East Thirty-sixth Street?”
“That’s right.”
“What kind of a party?”
“The same kind he always gives,” Gillian said. “You bring the booze, and I’ll supply the records and potato chips.”
“Should we go?”
“If you like.”
“Whatever you say,” David answered.
The thought persisted. She could not shake it from her mind. They leaned against the railing overlooking the Sound, waiting for the fireworks to start. There was the hush of expectation in the crowd around them. David stood behind her, his arms circling her waist. She looked out over the water to the spit of land where she could see men moving about with flares, preparatory to starting the show. She said, “Do you remember Michael Scanlon?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“It was a while back. Marian called me about this pilot he was firming in the Bahamas.”
“What about him?” David asked.
This is not the right time, Gillian thought. This is not the right place. Showdowns should be played on the main street, in bright sunlight, with dust rising and the town still.
“He called Marian today.”
“Yes?”
This is neither the time nor the place, she thought.
“He’s finished the pilot and sold it. NBC’s doing it in the fall.”
“Good,” David said.
She hesitated. There was a deep silence. A rocket suddenly shot into the sky, exploded in an incandescent blue, which tinted the water. The crowd went “Ahhhhhhhhhhh!” She turned in David’s arms.