11
Tobin had once read a rather long and surprisingly fascinating book on medieval theater and how, when the theater wagons pulled into the small towns surrounding London or Rome or Prague, the townspeople would come forth with gifts of flowers and food.
What audiences these days had to offer was not much different, really. But their gifts were the special attention they lavished on people who were essentially nobodies, has-been's or would-be's (Tobin always put himself in the latter category), and instead of flowers their mouths bloomed with laughter over the trite jokes of mid-level celebrity. Game show or melodrama, they searched for some respite from the grind of work or dull relationships or any number of fears.
And that was why there were so many of them this morning, the ocean sky cloudless blue, the ocean calm and unending green, on the brilliant white deck, where the episodes of 'Celebrity Circle' were taped.
Jere Farris, the producer, tense under the best conditions, looked even tenser and more exhausted this morning as he tore himself this way and tore himself that way to address all sorts of problems-from lighting to sound checks to makeup to cue cards to the routine the warm-up comedian was going to use.
Tobin was in his seat behind the big horseshoe-shaped panel. He had a nameplate in front of him, a guide for all the millions of folks at home who might not have a clue as to who he was. He wore a Hawaiian shirt-even though they weren't anywhere near Hawaii. As Farris said, 'It's tropical, that's all that matters to Mr. and Mrs. Midwest, it's tropical.'
Everybody on the panel wore Hawaiian shirts and leis, and had gigantic fruit drinks in front of them, and redwood-sized plastic palm trees behind them so that the picture that went home was of this fantastic floating paradise, complete with insert shots of truly incredible babes lolling about the swimming pool and snapshotlike inserts of the various celebrities doing 'tropical' stuff: Tobin playing deck tennis, looking short next to the gorgeous Susan Richards; macho ex-TV cop Kevin Anderson pumping iron as two women with a lot of suntan goop on, so they'd look darker, standing to his right supposedly playing the ukuleles they hugged to their great bikinied bosoms; and Cassie McDowell leading a group of 'young-at-heart older citizens' in a chorus of 'God Bless America.'
It was ducky, it was plucky, it was yucky and Tobin, in his stupid screaming shirt, was right in the middle of it.
The warm-up comedian, Marty Gerber, was one of those rare young comedians who didn't use shock material for his laughs, favoring instead almost gentle comments on the perverse nature of human beings, some of the most perverse of whom were the gaudy tourists in their gaudy clothes spread now like a lurid flower garden over the deck where the show was being taped.
As Marty skillfully worked the audience, the rest of the crew went through the final breakdown of lighting, camera positioning, and sound checks.
'We've got three segments to tape today! Three segmerits!' Jere Farris said, clapping his hands at a lighting man whom he'd perceived dawdling. 'Do you understand how much money we're losing?'
Farris, tart, given to matronly hand-clapping and a certain prissiness in expression, was never a favorite with crews, most of whom ran to overweight, blue-jeaned guys who hated anybody who was on camera, but hated especially people in position to give them orders. Especially guys who gave orders by clapping hands.
Tobin ducked down and made an elaborate pretense of tying his penny loafer. At least he hoped that people had the impression he was tying his shoe. What he was really doing, of course, was pouring pure silver vodka from his pure silver flask-which was mounted by Velcro backing to his sock-into his stupid pink-yellow fruit drink.
As he poured, he took the opportunity to admire Cassie McDowell's perfect ankles.
Then he sat back up and began sipping with quiet satisfaction.
He had just sort of wiggled himself back into position when he noticed the makeup woman, a very shy, graceful, twentyish girl named Joanna Howard, staring at him. If Tobin were ever asked to cast a film about the Amish, he'd choose her-she had that kind of severe prettiness that sometimes is far more interesting than any other sort, perhaps because it's touched with mystery. Joanna rarely spoke but only nodded, rarely smiled but only sort of inclined her head when she realized that she was supposed to laugh but could not, apparently, find the appropriate sound. Then there were her clothes. Though the cruise was 'tropical,' she always wore heavy white silk blouses that came all the way down to her wrists and very heavy designer jeans and heavy woolen argyle socks and white tennis shoes of the Keds variety. Her blue gaze fascinated him, and he wondered now how long she'd been standing there and if she'd guessed what he'd just done.
'Did you see that?'
She looked puzzled.
'No, I guess you didn't.'
'Your nose,' she said.
'My nose?'
'Needs powder.'
'Oh.'
'Shiny.'
'Ah.'
So she did his nose to reduce the glare and then she did his cheeks and jaw again, apparently just as a precaution.
As she worked, he said, 'Do you ever relax?' He saw her cheeks color.
'I didn't mean to embarrass you, Joanna. And I wasn't flirting.' You had to treat her like a very skittish animal. 'I just mean, are you having fun on the trip?'
She nodded. 'Sure.'
'Why don't I ever see you in any of the lounges?'
'Oh. This allergy, I guess.'
'Allergy.'
'To alcohol.'
'Oh.'
'But I brought some good books.'
'Oh.'
For the first time ever, he saw her smile. 'Books are better than people sometimes.'
'True enough.'
'I'm reading Thomas Wolfe.'
And she was of course at just the right age for Wolfe. Only later on-after your first kid, your first firing, and the death of a parent-did you realize that Wolfe's concerns were those of a very talented but very self-consumed fourteen-year-old.
'You don't like him?'
'Why do you say that?' Tobin asked.
'You just made a face.'
'Oh. Well, I'd have to say he's not my favorite.'
'Who's your favorite?'
'Oh, gosh.'
'I guess that was a kind of stupid question, huh?'
Seeing that he'd embarrassed her, he put a hand out to touch her forearm, but before his fingers could quite reach her, she jerked her arm away.
He said, 'Graham Greene.'
'What?'
She was still looking upset over the fact that he'd tried to touch her.
'If you pressed me about my very favorite writer,' Tobin said, 'I'd have to say Graham Greene.' He was staring at the space where her arm had been. The arm she wouldn't let him touch. 'I… I'm sorry, Joanna. I didn't mean anything by that.'
